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V 



THE HISTORIC NOVELS 


JOHN ESTEN COOKE. 


BY JOHN ESTEN COOKE. 

1. — SURRY OF EAGLE’S NEST. 

2. — MOHUN. 

8.— HILT TO HILT. 

4. — OUT OF THE FOAM. 

5. -HAMMER AND RAPIER 

6 . — FAIRFAX. 

7. — BEATRICE HALLAM. 

8. — CAPTAIN RALPH. 

9. — ROBERT E. LEE. 

10. -STONEWALL JACKSON, 

11. — MISS BONNYBELL. 

The thrilling historic stories of John Esten 
Cooke may be classed among the best and most 
popular of all American writers. The great 
contest between the States was the theme he 
chose for his Historic Romances. Following until 
the close of the war the fortunes of Stuart, Ashby, 
Jackson and Lee, he returned to “Eagle’s Nest,” 
his old home, where, in the quiet of Peace, he 
wrote volume after volume, intense in dramatic 
interest. There is not a dull line in any volume 
of his writings. His books should be in every old 
Confederate soldier ’s library, and should be read 
by every Southern boy. 




A new popular edition, paper covers. Price per 
volume, 30 cents, and sent free by mail on 
receipt of price, 

BY 

0. W. Dillingham Co., Publishers 

NEW YORK. 



OUT OF THE FOAM. 


A NOVEL. 


BY 

JOHN ESTEN COOKE, 

\V 


AUTHOR OF 

“HILT TO HILT,’' “SURRY of eagle’s NEST,” 
“ HAMMER AND RAPIER,” “ FAIRFAX,” ETC. 


NEW YOR K : 

G, IV. Dillingham Co., Publishers , 


~?Z3 

■ Crr 5 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by 
G. W. CARLETON & CO., 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, D. C. 

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1900, by 
R. POWELL PAGE, 

Administrator, Estate of JOHN ESTEN COOKE, 

In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C* 

Out of the Foam . 





CONTENTS. 


PART I. 

THE ATTACK ON WESTBROOKS TTAT.T^ 


ETWAPM5R. PAO& 

L — The Beacon • 9 

IL — The Solitary Woman and her Visitor . IS 

III. — The Gypsy ...... 19 

IV. — The Odor of Death • • ... 26 

V. — The Bende«rvoua 83 

VX — Sir Murdaugh’s Midnight Visitor . . 41 

VTL — What Earle saw from his Hiding-place . 46 

VIII. — The Wolf-Hound 63 


IX. — How Earle Staggered and Fell, Uttering 


a Cry of Triumph 67 

3L — How the Sailor Earle became one of the 

“ Wolvee n 65 

iT> 


CONTENTS. 


vi 

Chapter. Pass 

XL — Ellinor Maverick . » * r 73 

XII. — “It is Time!” 80 

XIII. — The Man in the Coach .... 84 

XIV. — The Night March, and its Object . . 91 

XV. — The Viscount Cecil 98 

XVL — The Attack and Pursuit .... 103 
XVIL — Qoliath . • * • . ■ • 112 


PART II. 


THE BLOOD-HOUND. 

Chapter. Paghl 

L — Hunted ...•••• 118 

IL — The Baronet and the Solitary . . . 129 

ILL — What One Woman is capable of toward 

Another ...... 142 

IV. - - The Sailor and his Ship .... 149 

V. — Earle’s Design . . . . . . 164 

VI. — The Witness . . .... 158 

VTL — The Denunciation • • • • • 162 

VIII. — The Blood-Hound 170 

IX. — What Followed 177 

X. — The Flag with the Lilies . . . .183 


CONTENTS. 


PART III. 

BUEIED ALIVE. 

SHATTlHi. PxUR. 

L — Baron Delamere • . . • . 189 

IL — The Mutilated Register .... 198 

III. — The Revelation 203 

IV. — The Discovery 207 

V. — The Blow of the Whip .... 213 

VL — The Mad Dog 219 

VII. — The Burial of the Wolf • • • • 224 

VHI. — The Chase 228 

XL — The Mystery of the Dead Bodies . . 233 

X — The Den of the Wolf .... 839 

XI. — Kidnapped ..•••• 243 

XII. — Master and Man 247 

XIII. — A Tigress 251 

XIV. — The Intruder 258 

XV. — The Rifled Grave 269 

XVI. — The Attack of the Wolves . . . 277 

XV IL — The News from Franco .... 283 

XVIII. — The Crisis 288 

XTX. — The Path to Wentworth Castle . . 293 

XX. - - What the Gypsy Woman had Seen . . 299 

XXI. — The Love of an Old Man for a Girl . . 804 


CONTENTS. 


viii 


Chatter. 


FAsa 


XXII. — The Bludgeon and the Rope . . • 

XXIIL — The Maverick Vault .... 
XXIV. — The Man from Wentworth Castle , • 

XXV. — The Wedding at Llangollen . c • 

XXVL — The Vengeance of a Blood-Hound . 
£XVn — The Wolves celebrate the Marriage of their 


312 

817 

822 

826 

882 


Chief 




• m 



PART I. 

THE ATTACK ON WESTBROOKE TTATX. 


CHAPTER L 


THE BEACON. 

IN a stormy night of autumn, a boat, ap* 
proaching from the open sea, drew rap- 
idly near the coast of Pembrokeshire, the 
most western of the shires of Wales. 

The coast was wild, rock-bound, jutting out 
into gigantic headlands, and lashed by the 
restless surges of St. George’s Channel, break- 
ing with a hollow murmur on dangerous reefs. 
At the point which the boat approached, the 
loftiest of these headlands rose precipitously 
from the foam ; at its foot grinned the jagged 
teeth of rocks which had wrecked many a 
vessel ; and in the cavernous recesses the long 
bellow of the waves was mingled with the 
shrill scream of the sea-fowl. 

(») 


10 


THE BEACON. 


The boat was rowed by four men, and in 
the stem stood a fifth personage wrapped in a 
cloak. 

The stars, glittering from moment to mo- 
ment, between the masses of black cloud, scarce 
revealed the dusky figures; but all at once 
there shot up from the headland, towering at 
a dizzy height above, a pillar of flame, which 
threw its crimson glare far out apon the waves 
of the « flannel. 

Every instant the fiery streamer grew more 
brilliant. The wind began to blow big guns, 
and the gigantic torch flickered in the gusts. 
The boat flew on, — was steered through the 
threatening reefs by the man in the stem, — 
and finally shot straight toward the perpendic- 
ular precipice, where it seemed impossible to 
land. 

The steersman, however, evidently knew the 
locality. All at once, there appeared a sort 
of indentation in the precipice, from which a 
winding pathway was seen to ascend the clifi. 
The boat touched land, or rather the rock ; the 
man in the cloak leaped ashore, carrying under 
his arm a black leather valise; and the boat, 
without delay, returned toward the open chan- 
nel. 


THE BE ACC N. 


11 


As it moved away, the man in the cloak said, 
in the brief tone of command, — 

“ Kemember my orders, men. jReturn to this 
spot, every night, for ten nights, at this hour. 
The corvette will stand for the coast of Ireland, 
but regularly beat up again at nightfall. My 
business may be finished in two days ; if not in 
ten, I will be dead.” 

And the speaker rapidly ascended the cliff by 
the rugged path, which, in twenty minutes, con- 
ducted him to the plateau on which streamed 
the beacon light. 

It was a great bonfire in a fissure of rock, not 
far from a sort of hut leaning against a mass of 
granite. On a bench, in front of the hut, sat a 
woman of about fifty, clad in sad-colored gar- 
ments, and looking out thoughtfully upon the 
channel. The face of this woman was pale and 
emaciated ; her hair was sprinkled with gray ; 
and from time to time she passed backward and 
forward through her fingers the beads of a 
Catholic devotee, attached to her girdle. Poor 
as her dress and surroundings were, there was 
something proud and imposing in her appear 
ance. In the full glare of the beacon light 
every detail was plain. 

The man drew near. At first the crackling 


12 


THE BEACON. 


of the fire and the dense smoke made tt e wornas 
unaware of his approach. All at once, however, 
he stood beside her, and exclaiming “ Edmond I ” 
she rose to her feet. 

“ Mother ! ” came in response, and a moment 
afterwards she was locked in the man’s embrace. 

As he extended his arms his cloak fell, and 
he was seen to be clad in the full uniform of a 
captain of the French navy. 

Tliis scene took place nearly a century ago, 
and England and France were then at war. 




CHAPTER IL 

THE SOLITARY WOMAN AND HEB VISITOR. 

young officer and the woman sat down 
ie by side on the bench, in the full light 
the beacon fire. 

The light revealed his face and figure 
clearly. He was about twenty-five; of slight 
figure, but evidently active and powerful. The 
face was bronzed by sun and wind. In the 
black eyes, keen and piercing, could be read 
force of character, and a courage as cool as it 
was reckless. 

They talked long and earnestly. The sailoi 
seemed to be narrating his adventures. 

u And now, mother,” he at length said, “since 
I have finished with myself, let us come to your- 
self. You still keep up your beacon ? ” 

“ Yes, yes, my son ! ” was the reply, in French, 

U3) 




14 


SOLITARY U OAfAX. 


the language of their conversation. “ Alas ! it 
is little to do in expiation of my sins.” 

“ Your sins ? ” 

“ My great sins. Do not bring them to my 
memory. That beacon, you know, warns ves- 
sels approaching the reefs. It has saved many 
lives.” 

“True, mother — mine among the rest. I 
dared not look for a pilot, and your beacon saved 
the corvette last year.” 

“ A whole year since your last visit ! ” 

She gazed at him tenderly as she uttered these 
words. 

“ Could I help that, mother ? England and 
France are enemies now, and the coast is 
guarded. A frigate may blow my little cor- 
vette out of the water at any moment.” 

“ But you come — ” 

“ On secret service.” 

“ Tell me of it.” 

He shook his head. 

“ That is impossible, mother.” 

“ And yet I tell you all ! ” 

He looked at her with a smile, and then 
shrugged his shoulders. 

“ You tell me nothing. What is it you have 
®ver told me ? Stay : what brought you hither, 


SOLITARY WOMAN. 


15 


many years since, to this solitary spot ? Why 
did you leave beautiful France for this rock- 
bound shore ? Why do you live the life of a 
recluse, going to the fishing village beneath 
only once in many months to buy scanty sup- 
plies, with the poor little gold I brought ? ” 

Her head sank. 

“ True,” she said, “ I have preserved silence 
as to all this, but only because I was compelled 
to do so. Believe me, Edmond, I have good 
reasons for my silence.” 

“And I too, my mother, for mine, namely, 
my orders. So we will respect each other’s se- 
cret. Instead of speaking, I wish you to speak. 
Is a certain Yiscount Cecil in this neighborhood 
now ? ” 

“ I do not know, my son.” 

“ A certain Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke ? ” 

The woman turned her head suddenly. 

“ I believe so. But your business with him, 
my son ? ” 

The sailor uttered a short laugh. 

“ Merely to have an interview with him, my 
mother.” 

The woman shuddered. 

“ What is the matter, mother ?” 

u Beware of this man, my son.” 


16 


SOLITARY WOMAN. 


“Beware of Sir Murdaugli Westbrooks T' 

“ He is a terrible person, they say ; bloody and 
cruel ; and strange stories are told of him.” 

“ Ah 1 what stories ? ” 

“ Mysterious things are said to take place at 
Westbrooke Hall. People speak of singular* 
noises heard there, — of groans ; of great hounds 
prowling around ready to tear down intruders. 
More still, — it is said that a singular odor fills 
the house.” 

“ A singular odor ?” 

“ The smell of corpses.” 

And the woman crossed herself. 

The young sailor repeated his short laugh. 

“ That is mysterious, and curious, and I will 
go and see for myself. Groans — hounds — 
noises — the smell of corpses 1 That is queer, 
and excites curiosity. But we have conversed 
sufficiently of the excellent baronet. Besides, 

I am in haste, my mother — I must leave you. 
First, however, here is some gold.” 

And he drew a heavily filled bag from his 
valise, and placed it in the lap of the recluse.* 

“ Do not refuse it,” he added ; “ it is honestly 
earned ; and money is a friend, mother — one of 
the best in the world, and we should not repulse 
friends. How I must hurry. I have some 


SOLITARY WOMAN. 


17 


distance to travel to-night, and musv, cnang© my 
costume,” 

With these words the sailor raised the valise, 
and entered the door of the hut, leaving the 
solitary woman still seated on her bench, in the 
light of the beacon fire. 

This light streamed through the small win- 
dow, and revealed a rush-clad floor, one hard 
wooden chair, a low narrow bed, with a poor 
but neat covering, and several exquisite engrav- 
ings of scenes in the lives of the saints. 

In ten minutes the sailor reappeared. He 
was scarce recognizable. His uniform had been 
replaced by a handsome dark travelling suit of 
English fashion ; in one hand he carried a small 
travelling satchel, and in the other what appeared 
to be a bundle of rods about three feet in length, 
wrapped in shining oil-cloth. 

“You behold, my mother, the gentleman 
tourist, Mr. Delamere,” he said, laughing. “Let. 
it be pardoned the captain, Edmond Earle, 
sailor, if he adopts the name of Delamere — 
de la mer — as that to which he is best entitled 
after his own.” 

“And you will leave me, my son, so soon 
after gladdening my poor old eyes with youi 
coming?” 

9 


IS 


SOLITARY WOMAN. 


“ I must, mother; but do not fear: I will boob 
return.” 

“ But the danger.” 

“Danger! Well, we are old acquaintance^ 
this same danger and myself. We have shaken 
hands often, and I am not afraid of him.” 

u If they discover you — ” 

“They will arrest and hang me as a spy! 
Yes: but they will not probably discover me. 
I speak English like a native ; and before they 
hang me, the town yonder will be blown to 
atoms by my cannon.” 

The recluse clasped her hands. 

“ Oh, my son ! do not go.” 

He laughed grimly. 

“Be at rest, my mother: there is no danger; 
and you will not behold that fine spectacle from 
your headland, — the coast of this good Pem- 
brokshire raked by the guns of my corvette. 
See ! yonder is her light on the horizon. She is 
standing out to sea. You do not see it? I am a 
sailor, and see far. And now, farewell, my 
mother. I will revisit you to-morrow r jght, I 
think. Embrace me ” 

And embracing the woman, the sailor set out 
rapidly by a path which led down the mountain 
aide toward the interior. 



CHAPTER IIL 

THE GYPSY. 

MILE southward from the headland 
which we have described, lay the fish- 
ing village of Oldport, an assemblage of 
huts, many of them consisting of the 
overturned hulls of wrecked vessels, in which 
lurked rather than lived openly a wild and law- 
less class of men, half fishermen, half smugglers, 
popularly known throughout the region as “ The 
Wolves.” 

In front of a building of somewhat greater 
pretensions hung a rude sign depicting a cat 
^ with a bell around her neck. This was the inn 
of the Cat and Bell , and on the day after the 
scenes just described, a rickety old road-wagon, 
answering in place of a stage-coach, deposited 
at the inn the disguised French officer who nad 
entered the vehicle at a town some miles distant 

< 10 ) 



20 


THE GYPSY. 


Announcing himself as Mr. Delamere, tourist 
and amateur trout-fisherman, he dined ; stated 
that he expected to remain some days; and 
taking from the oil-cloth case a jointed fishing- 
rod, fitted it together, and strolled through the 
village. 

From the huts of the “ Wolves,” curious and 
threatening eyes were bent upon him, shining 
under shaggy masses of hair. The wild animals 
seemed to scent a popinjay in the well-clad 
amateur of their own trade. 

But Earle did not see the scornful glances, 
or hear the threatening murmurs. He pro- 
ceeded toward a body of wood, from which 
rose in the distance a great mansion of dark- 
colored stone ; gained the wood, through which 
a stream ran, and rapidly following a path, 
muttered, — 

“This leads to Westbrooke Hall — which is 
my object, since the worthy Yiscount Cecil is 
not in the vicinity. I must reconnoitre. This 
is the path, I think — ” 

Suddenly he stopped. He had come upon a 
group of gypsies ; an old crone in a red cloak 
bending over a blaze, two roguish-looking girls, 
and a young man, black-eyed, black-haired, 
lithe of figure, reclining at the moment between 


THE GYPSY. 


21 


the girls, and picking his white teeth with a 
straw. He was a handsome young vagabond, 
and his ragged clothes did not conceal a grace- 
ful and vigorous figure. 

No sooner had Earle made his appearance, 
than one of the girls rose and hastened to him. 

“ Shall I tell your fortune, handsome 
stranger ? ” she said. 

Earle looked intently at the girl, shook his 
head, and replied in a strange tongue which 
seemed to produce an electric effect on the 
group. The girls started, the old crone turned 
her head, and the young man, rising to his feet, 
exclaimed, — 

“ How l you speak the Rommanye Rye l 
You are a brother? ” 

Earle replied in the same language, and the 
young man looked at him with astonishment. 

“Yon speak the pure unmixed Rommanye 
Rye! Where did you learn it, brother, and 
who are you ? ” 

“ 1 learned it in Portugal, brother,” responded 
Earle, “ and am one of the tribe by adoption. 
Who I am, beyond that, is not important.” 

The gypsy came up close to him. 

“ Yes, it is important,” he whispered. 
“Why!” 


22 


THE GYPSY. 


“ Because, if you are really a brother of tho 
Rommanye Rye, — and you needs must be, since 
you speak our tongue, — I have something on 
hand in which you can help me, and yourself 
too.” 

“ What is it ? and how will it benefit me ? ” 

“There will be ten thousand guineas tc 
divide.” 

Earle looked sidewise at his companion. 

“ A robbery ? ” he said, coolly. 

The gypsy looked much shocked. 

“ Nothing of the sort, brother : the affair is a 
strange one ; but no robbery.” 

Earle found his curiosity much excited by this 
preamble, and said, — 

“ Well, tell me about it. I may be able to 
assist you.” 

The gypsy looked toward his companions, and 
whispered, 

“ Not here or now.” 

“ When and where, then \ ” 

“Do you see that spot yonder, where the 
road skirts the dark pool, under the big r< ck, 
covered with trailing vines, hanging down in 
the water 9 ” 

“Yes” 

“Meet me there at midnight to-night I 


THE GYPSY. 


©wear, on tlie faith of tne Rommanye Rye, that 
no harm shall come to you ! ” 

Earle laughed. 

“ I am not afraid,” he said, “ and I know that 
oath is sacred. I only demur to the time and 
place. I am at Oldport, and that is miles dis- 
tant. Midnight is the hour to sleep ; why not 
earlier and in a less secluded spot % ” 

“ Because what I tell you must be told to you 
alone ; and that spot is the place to tell it.” 

“ Why ? ” 

“ You will discover.” 

Earle looked keenly at his interlocutor, lie 
was evidently in earnest. 

“ You want my help \ ” said Earle. 

“ I must have help. None of the brothers of 
the Rommanye Rye are at hand. You are a 
stranger, but a brother. I will trust you. 
'What do you say ? ” 

“ I say I will be yonder, near the pool, at 
midnight,” was the reply. 

And they returned to the group who had 
been eyeing them with ill-dissembled curi-i 
osity. 

“This is a brother,” he said to the gypsy 
girls. “ There is no mistake about it.” 

The black-eyed houries showed their appreci- 


24 


THE GYPSY. 


ation of the visitor, thereupon, by coming up 
to him, locking their arms, browned by the 
sun, around his neck, and kissing him with 
ardor. 

The sailor laughed, and did not decline the 
ruddy lips. He then made a confidential ges- 
ture to the young gypsy, declined the offered 
supper, and went on, intent, it seemed, on 
making the circuit of the Westbrooke Park, 
until he reached the gateway. 

This he soon found, — a huge arch, with 
carved stone abutments, — and, dragging open 
the ponderous affair, he entered the grounds. 

They had been splendid, but were now return- 
ing to wilerdness. Hares ran across the road 
in front of the pedestrian, a deer disappeared 
in a tangled thicket, and no human being was 
seen, to indicate that the spot was inhabited. 

All at once, Earle came in sight of a great 
building of age-embrowned stone, apparently 
dug from the neighboring quarries, with lofty 
gables, ivy-covered, and long rows of windows, 
close-shut, and giving no indication that the 
house was occupied by the living, whatever an- 
tics the dead might cut up, at midnight, in its 
suites of deserted chambers. The great front 
door was as closely secured, and a huge knocko 


THE GYPSY. 


25 


in bronze scowled fiercely through cobwebs. 
In the circle in front of the portico, whose tes- 
eelated floor was giving way, was a stone urn, 
slowly crumbling. 

Westbrooke Hall was not a cheerful spec- 
tacle. 

Earle was looking at it, leaning, as he did so, 
against a tree, when a rough voice near him 
laid, in a threatening tone, — 

“ Well, what is your business here ? ” 




CHAPTER IV. 

THE ODOE OF DEATH. 

ARLE turned quickly. 

Standing near liim was a man of low 
stature, but herculean limbs, with a 
shaggy beard, bloodshot eyes, ovei 
which the brows were bent in a dark scowl, 
and holding in his hand, finger on trigger, a 
heavy carbine. 

Beside him stood two large wolf-hounds, 
ready to spring. The man with this ferocious 
body-guard seemed reluctant to await Earle’s 
reply before firing upon him. 

The sailor exhibited little surprise and no 
foal*. 

“My business here?” he said. “Who are 
you that ask that ? The gamekeeper ? ” 

“ Yes — who are you ? I am told that sufr 

(2ft', 



THE ODOR OF DEATH. 


27 


pi cions characters are prowling about. Your 
name and business here, or I carry you before 
Sir Murdaugh ! ” 

Earle reflected for a moment, muttering, — 

“ That would not be so bad.” 

The gamekeeper cocked his gun, scowling 
ferociously. 

“ Do you intend to answer me ? ” 

“ No.” 

‘‘Then come along before his honor. He 
will find out who is prowling around Lis 
house.” 

Earle coolly nodded, and walked with the 
man toward the mansion. Reaching the front 
door, his companion drew from his pocket a 
huge key, opened the ponderous door, which 
grated on its hinges, and ushered Earle into a 
funereal apartment, hung round with old por 
traits, after which he disappeared. 

The furniture was ancient and mouldy ; and 
to add to this depressing influence, Earle’s at 
tention was speedily attracted by a peculiarly 
acrid, offensive, and even sickening odor, which 
he could compare to nothing but that issuing 
from some vault or charnel-house. 

In spite of his courage and buoyancy of tern 
perament, he shuddered. This funereal man 


23 


THE ODOR OF DEATH. 


sion, full of shadows and mystery, affected un 
pleasantly even the rough sailor. The dim eyes 
of the portraits followed him, the brows 
scowled, the terrible odor, which he perceived 
-now, came to perfect the depressing and mel- 
ancholy influence of the place. 

“ Really, I have blundered into a vault,” he 
muttered. “ Some corpse is going to glide in 
at that door there, and clutch me by the 
hair 1 ” 

Suddenly a harsh and metallic voice, almost 
beside him said, — 

“Your business here? How did you gain 
entrance ? ” 

Earle turned and saw before him a strange 
figure. In the new-comer’s appearance there 
was something at once grotesque and terrible. 
He was a man of about sixty ; of great height : 
gaunt, bony, with glittering eyes, deeply sunken 
under heavy brows, and a nose resembling the 
beak of a hawk. From the corners of a large 
and sensual mouth, protruded two tusks, rather 
than teeth. The result of this, was a perma- 
nent and ghastly sneer, which put the finishing 
touch to a physiognomy which excited at once 
fear and disgust — the sentiment of the ridicu- 
lous and the terrible. 


THE ODOR OF DEATH 


He was clad in an old faded dressing-gown, 
the sleeves of which were rolled up, and had 
evidently not expected a visitor. 

“ Your business here ? 55 he repeated, in hie 
cold, forbidding voice, the muddy gray eyes 
rolling in their cavernous sockets. 

Earle gazed at him coolly, and replied, — 

“ Your gamekeeper conducted me hither. I 
say your gamekeeper, as I presume you are Sir 
Murdaugh Westbrooke.” 

u I am.” 

As he spoke, the shaggy-headed Hercules 
entered. His master turned to him with a 
scowl. 

“ I ordered no one to be admitted here with- 
out my knowledge — why have you disobeyed 
me ? ” he said. 

“ It was long ago — I was wrong Sir Mur- 
daugh,” stammered the man. 

“In future obey me,” grated the metallic 
voice ; “ who is this — gentleman ? ” 

The word seemed forced reluctantly from 
him. 

“ I am a tourist,” said Earle, “ travelling on 
my own affairs. I came to look at Westbrooke 
Park, and have been gratified with a view, also, 
of the interior of your residence, sir, — in the 


so 


THE ODOR CF DEATH. 


character of a vagrant brought up before your 
honor.” 

And Earle looked around him coolly. A 
door led from the apartment toward the ser- 
vants quarters’ — through folding doors, leading 
to a second receiving room, a window was seen 
open in rear, and through this window, the 
foliage of the park. 

“ Good ! ” muttered the sailor ; " that is all I 
wanted to know.” 

He rose and bowed. 

“ If I am not to be committed as a vagabond* 
I will now take my leave, sir,” he said. 

Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke, bowed stiffly. 

“ Before I take my departure, however, may 
1 ask one question, sir ? ” said the sailor. 

“ Ask it.” 

“ It may appear intrusive.” 

“ Ask it ! ” grated the voice. 

“Since you so politely permit me, I will 
venture to ask,” said the sailor, coolly, “ what 
the very peculiar odor I perceive here is due to, 
Sir Murdaugh.” 

The baronet drew back and seemed to freeze, 
Only his eyes burned in their bloodshot 
recesses. 

“ Your question is offensive l ” he growled 


THE ODOR OF DEATH. 


81 


“Then it resembles the smell I perceive.” 

And Earl snuffed up the air with manifest 
disgust. 

“ I compliment you upon the power of your 
imagination 1 ” sneered the baronet. 

“ My nose is the organ affected, and I should 
say that you have a corpse for a visitor at 
present, sir,” said Earle. “But I grow really 
intrusive now, and will take my leave. Good- 
evening. Thanks for the hospitalities of West* 
brooke Hall. We shall probably meet again.” 

And he bowed and left the apartment. A& 
he did so the baronet called, — 

“ Wilde I ” 

The shaggy gamekeeper was at the door, and 
quickly made his appearance. 

“ Follow that man and find out where he 
goes, and who he is — I do not like him. 
There is something in his face and voice that 
warns me to beware of him. Who is he? 
Yon do not know? Why do you not know? 

- What do I employ you tor ? Go, I say, 
and track him, and bring me word all about 
him!” 

The man, sullen but cowed, went out, and the 
baronet looked toward the door through which 
Earle had disappeared. 


82 


THE ODOR OF DEATH. 


“If that man comes here again with Ha 
talk about odors and corpses,” he muttered in 
his harsh voice, while the yellow tusks pno 
traded threateningly. “I will mako a corpse of 




CHAPTER V. 

THE RENDEZVOUS. 

T was nearly midnight: the moon had 
risen about half an hour before, and its 
pallid light revealed every feature of the 
lonely and lugubrious locality fixed upon 
by the gypsy for his rendezvous with Earle. 

Nothing more gloomy and forbidding than 
the spot in question could be imagined. 

The road, or rather bridle-path, indicated by 
the gypsy, ran along the steep banks of the 
stream we have spoken of, and near a dark and 
sullen-looking pool above which rose a huge 
rock, festooned with spectral-looking vines, ana 
covered nearly with dense foliage. The stream, 
merrily brawling on elsewhere, here dragged 
its black and sombre current slowly along, 
and deposited its froth and scum. Above 
8 ( 88 ) 



84 


THE RENDEZVOUS. 


the pool a dead bough, gnarled &nd abrupt 
resembled the gaunt arm of some fiend 
» .'retched out — beneath, on the sullen water, 
lUe shadows assumed ghostly and threatening 
cutlines. 

It was a spot to commit a murder, not to 
hold a midnight interview in, save with the 
hand upon some weapon. The very hooting of 
a great-homed owl, buried in the leaves, sounded 
unearthly. The spot seemed given up to gloom 
and the recollection, by the very inanimate 
objects, of some terrible tragedy. 

Precisely at midnight, a figure wrapped in a 
cloak approached the great gnarled tree near the 
rock hanging over the pool, and the moonlight 
clearly revealed the form of Earle. 

“Well, I am here,” he muttered; “ where, I 
wonder, is my friend of the black eyes?” 

“Here!” came from the shadow of the 
rock. 

And the gypsy advanced into the moonlight. 

Earle advanced in his turn. Ui der his cloak 
his hand grasped the hilt of his poniard. 

They faced each other directly opposite the 
pool ; and the dark eyes of the gypsy, full of 
wary cunning, were fixed upon the calm face of 
Earle. 


THE RENDEZVOUS. 


85 


“ I see you are a brave man, brother,” he 
said. 

“ II jw have I proved that ? ” said Earle. 

“By coming here at an hour like this, 
alone.” 

“ That is no proof of my courage. You are 
but one man — I am another.” 

The gypsy laughed. 

“ And a cool one. Others might have refused 
this meeting. This spot has a black reputation 
in the neighborhood.” 

“Why?” 

“ A man was tied to that tree, and lashed 
nearly to death.” 

“Indeed ! ” 

“ And six feet from it, another was murdered, 
and his body dragged to the pool yonder, where 
it was thrown in, with weights to hold it 
down.” 

“ How do you know that ? ” 

“ I saw it.” 

“ You saw the murder ? ” 

The gypsy nodded. 

“ Why did you not denounce the murderer J 
But doubtless you did so.” 

The gypsy shook his head. 

“ I was too intelligent for that” 


36 


THE RENDEZVOUS. 


“ Too intelligent ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Explain.’ 

The gypsy laughed again. It was & kw, sub 
tie sound, like the hiss of a serpent. 

“ Why should I have informed on the mur 
derer?” he said. “No: I was too intelligent for 
that ! A man is murdered ; his body concealed 
in that black-looking pool ; no one knows of th$ 
murder save the man or men who committed 
it, and a wandering vagabond of a gypsy who 
chanced to be in the copse yonder, and wit- 
nessed all, — and you ask now why the vaga- 
bond did not go to a magistrate and tell all; 
why he did not say, ‘I saw another commit 
this murder.’ No — I am acquainted with these 
good English justices of the peace. They 
demand a murderer where murder has been 
done — what more natural than the arrest of the 
vagabond ? ” 

Earle nodded. 

“ You are right. And you held your 
tongue ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Knowing all ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Tell me what happened. There noth; ^ 


THE RENDEZVOUS . 


3 ? 

like understanding all the particulars of a given 
event. 5 ' 

“ The story is short. I will conceal nothing 
— for you are a brother of the Rommanye Rye, 
and the oath of the brotherhood seals the lips 
— you know that . 55 

« Yes.” 

“What happened was this : There was a man 
who had an enemy. That enemy met the man 
one day at this spot, seized him with the aid of 
a servant, bound him to that tree there, and 
lashed him as men lash a hound. I do not 
know why — enough that he lashed him till 
his flesh was bloody. Then the two went 
away and left him tied ; when some passer-bj 
found him he was nearly dead . 55 

“ That is a strange story , 55 said Earle ; “ and 
this led to the murder ? 55 

“Yes. The man who had been lashed got 
well, and waited. One day he was riding 
along this road just at dark with a mounted 
attendant. He met his enemy — the one who 
had treated him as I have described. I was 
yonder in that thicket, as I told you. The 
enemies met face to face, and he who had been 
lashed smiled sweetly, held out his hand, and 
said* * X forgive you ; my punishment was 


THE RENDEZVOUS. 


88 

just.’ At these words, the other held out hi* 
hand in turn. A minute afterwards he fell 
from his horse with a deep groan — the man 
whom he had lashed had stabbed him to tlio 
heart.” 

“ Good ! ” said Earle ; “ there is a regular 
murder.” 

“Yes. The man did not die at once, so hi6 
enemy and the attendant dismounted and beat 
out his brains. They then fastened rocks, with 
*heir stirrup leathers, to the feet of the corpse, 
and dragged it to the pool yonder, where they 
threw it in, and it sunk to the bottom.” 

Earle listened with attention. 

“ And you saw all this ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And did not inform on the murderer ? ” 
“No.” 

“ Then the murder remained unsuspected ? ” 

“ On the contrary, it was discovered at once.” 

“ How was that ? — you interest me.” 

“ The murdered man had been followed by 
ft very fine blood-hound, a pet dog with him. 
When he was stabbed, the dog leaped at the 
throat of the murderer.” 

“Brave dog! — and they did not kill bim 
too 1 ” 


THE RENDEZVOUS, 


39 


u No : he escaped, and led the way afterwards 
to the spot where his master had been mur 
dered. The marks of a struggle were found — 
the blood-stains on the grass over which the 
body had been dragged, and at last the body 
itself, in the pool where it had been sunk.” 

Earle reflected for some moments and then 
said, — 

“ That is a singular history you relate, 
brother, and yet your voice tells me that it 
is true. Now, what is your object ? To bring 
the murderer to justice ? ” 

The gypsy smiled. 

“ I should like to do so if I could, brother , 
but I cannot, being a vagabond; and then, I 
cannot afford it.” 

“ Afford it?” 

“ The secret is worth much money. Listen ; 
I go — that is, you and I go — to the man who 
committed that murder and say, “ Your life is 
in my hand ; you killed a man ; pay me ten 
thousand guineas as the price cf my secresy ?” 
That is plain, is it not ? ” 

Earle nodded coolly. 

“ Then we will divide the sum hr pays us,” 
said the gypsy. 


40 


THE RENDEZVOUS, 


u That would be liberal,” returned Earle. 
a You consent ? ” 

u That depends. We have used no names; let 
us come to that. Who was the murdered man ? ” 
u Giles Maverick, a prom in ent gentleman of 
Pembrokeshire.” 

“ The murderer ? ” 

“Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke. ’ 




CHAPTER YL 

Sffi MUHDAUGh’s MIDNIGHT VISITOR. 

« E had scarcely uttered the words, when a 
low growl in the copse near them was 
suddenly heard ; and an instant after- 
wards the gypsy sprung in the direction 
of the sound, which resembled the noise of 
rapidly retreating footsteps. 

The gypsy followed with long leaps, like a 
wild-cat in pursuit of his prey > but in spite of 
ail, the sounds became more and more indistinct, 
and suddenly ceased. The concealed personage 
had escaped. 

Earle had remained motionless, leaning 
against the gnarled tree. 

In ten minutes the gypsy returned to tie spot, 
breathing heavily from his exertion. 

“We have been tracked,” he said, hastily. 

(41) 


*2 


THE MIDNIGHT VISITOR. 


Earle nodded. 

“ I thought so,” he said. 

“ You thought so ? ” 

“ Yes ; that is to say, I feared as much.” 

“ Wiy?” 

“ I was at Westbrooke Hall late this evenings 
and had a conversation with Sir Murdaugh West- 
brooke. As I went out, I heard him summon a 
confidential servant, or gamekeeper, whose name 
is Wilde. The man followed me, hung around 
the tavern at the village for an hour, disappeared, 
I thought ; but now I find that he is a better 
hand at woodcraft than I am, a mere sailor. 
He has tracked me, and overheard all.” 

The gypsy knit his brow. 

“ You take it coolly, brother.” 

“ There is no reason why I should take it 
otherwise.” 

“ He will inform Sir Murdaugh.” 

“Of what?” 

“ Of all he has heard.” 

“ He has heard nothing.” 

“ Nothing ! ” 

“We have been diking in the Hommanyo 
Rye,” said Earle. 

The gypsy looked at him with admiration. 

“ That is true, brother,” he said ; “ and you 


THE MIDNIGHT VISITOR. 


43 


have a long head on your shoulders. Now what 
is to be done ? ” 

Earle reflected for an instant. 

“ The affair looks unpromising,” he said ; 
“ but something may, perhaps, take place which 
will guide you in your business. The night is 
clear, we have some hours before us : why not 
pay a visit to the park of Westbrooke Hall, and 
try to discover, for one thing, whether I am mis- 
taken in thinking that the man Wilde has 
tracked me? If I am right, he will return to 
make his report. Through a window chink we 
may overhear something ; from a tree, which a 
good sailor like myself can easily climb, we 
may see something. Who knows 1 Let us try, 
at least.” 

And, followed by the gypsy, who evidently 
regarded him with admiration, Earle set out 
rapidly in the direction of Westbrooke Hall. In 
half an hour, they were near the boundaries of 
the park, which was encircled by a high wall. 

As they drew nearer, they all at once discov- 
ered a light vehicle, to which a single horse 
was attached, standing in the shadow of the 
wall, at a point where the btones had partially 
fallen, and left a gap. 

Through this gap two men were seen lifting 


44 


THE MIDNIGHT VISITOR . 


a third wrapped in a cloak, and appaiantly in 
the last stages of intoxication. 

“ Stand up, my hearty ! ” said one of the 
men, with a low laugh ; “ this way you have of 
going and getting yourself as drunk as a beast 
is not according to good morals, old fellow I 
There ! use your legs and come on. Sir Mur- 
daugh is waiting for you.” 

“Be quiet, and hush your gab, mate,” said 
the other ; “ who knows who may be prowling 
about % ” 

“ After midnight \ ” 

“ Yes. There are the gypsy people.” 

“Well, they do hate Sir Murdaugh.” 

“There, again. I have often warned you 
about calling names; stop it! Bear a hand 
there.” 

“You are right, mate. Come on, aged ine- 
briate ! ” 

And the two men half dragged, half carried 
the third along a path through the shrubbery, 
toward the hall. 

Earle and the gypsy followed, walking noise- 
lessly and keeping in the shadow. 

As they approached the hall, a low growl from 
a kennel, where a hound seemed to be chained, 
greeted them, and a moment afterwards the 


THE MIDNIGHT VISITOR. 


45 


door of the hall opened slightly, and revealed 
the figure of Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke, ,lad in 
his long dressing-gown, and holding a I/ght in 
his hand. 

Eaile and the gypsy had reached the thicket 
near which the former had encountered the 
gamekeeper. In this they ensconsed them 
selves, and could see everything. 

Sir Murdaugh shot a keen glance in the direc- 
tion of the three figures. 

“ Make haste ! ” he said, impatiently. 

“ Come on, old gentleman! ” muttered one of 
the men to the one between them. 

The figure staggered, and would have fallen 
had not the two men held it up by main force. 
As it staggered, the hat fell off, the cloak 
dropped to the ground ; and the light revealed 
all. 

The figure was clad in a shroud, and the jaw 
h*d fallen. 

It was a corpse. 


CHAPTER YU 


WHAT EARLE SAW FROM HIS HIDING-PLACE. 



f ARLE laid his hand upon the arm of 
his companion. On the firm lips of the 
young sailor the moonlight revealed a 
sarcastic smile. 

ok ! ” he whispered ; “ there is the sort of 
goods in which our friend deals.” 

“ Yes,” said the gypsy, whose dark eyes were 
fixed upon the face of the corpse. “ Is it 
another murder?” 

“No.” 

“ What?” 


“ I will tell you when there is less danger 
of being overheard.” 

In fact, the two men carrying the corpse 
had paused to listen. Something seemed to 
excite their suspicion. 

“What is tb« matter?” came in low, liaisb 
( 46 ) 


WHAT EARLE SAW, \ 


47 


tones from the lips of Sir Murdaugh VVesf- 
brooke. 

“I thought I heard a noise, sir,” said one 
of the men. 

“A noise?” 

“In the thicket there.” And releasing the 
arm of the corpse, the speaker took two steps 
toward the spot where Earle and the gypsy 
were concealed. 

Earle laid his hand upon his poniard. The 
hand of the gypsy in like manner stole be- 
neath his ragged jacket and grasped some- 
thing — a knife, probably. There was no pos- 
sibility of retreating. It was necessary, they 
felt, to await the attack and defend them 
selves. 

But the danger quickly passed. 

“ Nonsense ! ” came in same low, harsh tones 
from the baronet ; “ all fancy ! The.e is no 
one there. It is one in the morning. Bring in 
that ! ” 

And with his long, lean finger he pointed 
to the corpse. 

The man returned, muttering something, 
and again assisted his companion in dragging 
— for they rather dragged than cai ried — the 
body into the mansion. The 1 ugubrious group 


48 


WTIAT EARLE SAW. 


with their funereal burden passed through ihe 
great doorway — it closed — save the glimmer 
through one of the windows, there was now 
no sign of life throughout the establishment. 

“ Well,” said Earle, “we have stumbled upon 
something like an adventure. We did well in 
coming to visit the park. There is nothing 
like knowing the private affairs of a man you 
are to have dealings with ! ” 

“Hist!” returned the gypsy suddenly. I 
heard a noise ! ” 

“A noise? — Where?” 

‘‘In the wood yonder, behind the house.” 

Both listened. All at once footsteps became 
audible — the firm tread of a man, walking on 
the thick turf, which gave forth a muffled and 
lull response. 

“ He has arrived ! ” whispered Earle. 

“ Who?” 

“ The man who tracked me and overheard 
ffhat was said yonder — Wilde ? ” 

“ He will discover us 1 ” 

“ It is probable, as he has one of the hounds * 
vith him.” 

“Where is the dog?” 

As he spoke, Wilde appeared in the moon- 
light, emerging from the shadow of the wood. 


WHAT EARLE SAW. 


49 


Beside him ran the great wolf-hound, losing 
and uttering suppressed growls. 

“ What is the matter ? ” the man was heard 
to say in a low voice; “there is no one hero, 
Wolf.” 

The dog continued his quest, uneasy, evi- 
dently, and more suspicious than his master. 

“Come here,” said Wilde; “you are losing 
your time. The first thing is to see Sir Mur- 
daugh. Then we will come out and go th< 
rounds, Wolf.” 

With these words he called the dog to him, 
and they disappeared behind the mansion. 

“ Now is the time to get off,” whispered the 

gypsy. 

“No: now is the time to discover more,” 
returned Earle, coolly. “ Go deeper into the 
thicket ; no dog can find you there, if you lie 
down and keep quiet. I am going to the main- 
top to look out.” 

An d with a short laugh, which revealed his 
white teeth, the young sailor emerged from 
covert, crossed the moonlit expanse in front 
of the house, and, climbing with the agility of 
a cat, an enormous oak whose foliage brushed 
the walls of the house, concealed himself 
among the leaves. 

4 


60 


WHAT EARLE SAW. 


From the lofty perch which he had thua 
reached, and where he sustained himself by a 
firm grasp upon one of the lesser boughs, the 
young man could see into the establishment^ 
one of whose window-shutters was open. 

The apartment into which he looked was not 
that which had witnessed the interview between 
nimself and Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke. It was 
a much smaller room on the left, plainly fur- 
nished. In the centre was a great arm-chair. 
Seated bolt upright in this chair, with grinning 
teeth, was the corpse. 

Sir Murdaugh was standing erect, candle in 
hand. In his long dressing-gown, dark and 
draping his person from head to foot, he re- 
sembled a Roman augur, about to perform 
some mysterious rite. His face was pallid, and 
as he gazed at the body, the grin habitual 
with him distorted his features, revealing 
clearly the sharp tusks at the comers of his 
mouth. His sombre glance seemed to gloat 
on the lugubrious object. Earle shuddered 
almost. The effect produced by the expres- 
sion of the pale face was that of the presence 
of one of the deadly cobras which the sailor 
had seen in the tropics — a mixture of fear 
and loathing. 


WHAT EARLE SAW. 


51 


The two men had retreated, hat in Hand, to 
the dcor, and waited. 

As Earle, from his hiding-place in the oak, 
took in the details of this singular tableau, the 
door opened and Wilde entered, followed by his 
wolf-hound. 




CHAPTER VTIL 

THE WOLF-HOUND. 

HE baronet and the shaggy Hercules 
^ 1 1| exchanged rapid glances. 

(oXT Wilde made a slight movement of 
CAf the head in the direction of the two 
men, and, as though comprehending at 
once the meaning of this sign, Sir Murdaugh 
Westbrooke pointed to the door, said something 
to the men, and they disappeared. 

Wilde then rapidly approached his mastei 
His face was dark and scowling. He spoke 
rapidly, with animated gestures, pointing, as he 
did so, in the direction of the pool near the 
boundary of the park. 

As he spoke, Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke’s 
face grew as black as night. His bushy brows 
were knit over his snake-like eyes, and he lift* 
tened with unconcealed emotion. 


THE WOLF-HOUND. 


53 


The Bailor, in his oak, uttered a low laugh. 

“ The worthy pair are discussing things,” he 
said. “The man is telling his master of the 
mysterious interview between the mysterious 
stranger and the gypsy, at the pool. What will 
result ? Let us look on, since it is impossible to 
listen.” 

The interview continued for about half an 
hour. Then the baronet was seen to point 
through the window toward the front of the 
house. 

The sailor saw that gesture, and his marvel 
lous acumen told him that Sir Murdaugh West- 
brooke was informing Wilde of the supposed 
noise heard by the men when bringing in the 
dead body. 

The Hercules turned quickly toward the 
door. As he did so, he made a sign to the 
wolf-hound, and the animal, as though under 
standing perfectly, disappeared at a bound. 

A moment afterwards, Earle’s attention was 
attracted by a low and continuous growling 
beneath the oak. He locked down and saw 
the dog coursing to and fro, and nosing the 
earth. 

By a strange instinct, the wolf-hound paid no 
attention to the traces left by the men and their 


54 


THE WOLF-HOUND. 


burden. Something seemed to draw him irra 
sistibly toward the oak, in which Earle was con- 
cealed. Every circuit which he made brought 
him nearer ; at last he reached the tree. IJis 
nose rested for a moment upon the trunk, and 
he snuffed at it in silence. Then his head rose, 
his dark eye glittered in the moonlight, lie 
caught sight of Earle, half-lost in the foliage, 
and uttered a long, continuous, and furious 
bay. 

As the deep and prolonged alarm issued 
from the hound’s lips, Earle felt that he was 
lost. There was no possibility of remaining 
undiscovered : the hound had descried him; 
the hoarse bay could not be mistaken. It was 
the sound uttered by animals who have dis- 
covered their prey, and are furious to leap 
upon it, and tear it limb from limb. Earle felt 
that Wilde and the baronet would understand 
all in a moment, and throwing a rapid glance 
through the window, he saw that his fears were 
well founded 

No sooner had the hoarse cry of the hound 
reached his ear, than the man Wilde started 
and turned toward the door. 

Sir Murdaugh, who had gone toward the body, 
turned as quickly. 


THE WOLF-HOUND. 


5o 


Wilde pointed in the direction of the sound, 
uttered some hasty words, and, drawing a hunt- 
ing knife from his girdle, rushed from the 
room. 

Earle saw that all was lost, unless he acted 
with decision. He did not hesitate. The in- 
mates of Westbrooke Hall were persons, evi- 
dently, who did not fear bloodshed, and were 
apt to act without ceremony. His life would in 
all probability pay the forfeit of his daring in- 
vasion of the precincts, and without a moment’s 
hesitation Earle slid down the tree, passed from 
bough to bough, let his body fall from the low- 
est limb, and sprung upon the hound, who in 
turn darted at his enemy’s throat. 

Earle felt the hot breath of the animal on 
his face, and the sharp teeth touched his throat. 

The struggle was desperate, but did not con- 
tinue long. Before the teeth of the hound 
could close upon the throat of Earle, he drew 
his poniard, plunged it into the ammal’s body 
behind the shoulder, and hurling the dog from 
him, rushed into the thicket just as Wilde 
reached the spot, attracted by the last cry of the 
dying wolf-hound. 

The Hercules uttered a growl so savage that it 
resembled that of a tiger. Drawing his kn'ie, 


56 


THE WOLF-HOUND. 


he hastened in the direction of a rustling which 
he heard in the thicket. Head down, like a 
mad bull, he burst througli every obstacle, 
breathing heavily, uttering curses, his eyes glar- 
ing with rage. 

But the noise receded — ceased. Coming to 
an open space, he saw through a vista two shad- 
ows clear the park wall and vanish. 

Earle and the gypsy had effected their escape^ 
and were lost in the great Westbrooke woods. 




CHAPTER IX. 

HOW EARLE STAGGERED AND FELL, UTTERING A 
CRY OF TRIUMPH. 

MORNING full of brilliant sunshine 
succeeded the night in which the events 
which we have just described took place. 
It was one of those days of autumn 
which seem to make of the dull earth a fairy 
realm, all splendor, glory, and delight $*when the 
forests blaze in orange, purple, crimson, and all 
colors of the rainbow ; when the blue sky bears 
upon its bosom argosies of white-sailed clouds ; 
and the sigh of the pines, the laughter of the 
breeze, the long and musical murmur of the 
waves, make up a symphony sweeter than ever 
Mozart, Yerdi, or Rossini dreamed. 

From the fishing village of Oldport, St 
George’a Channel was seen to roll its azure 

( 57 ) 



58 


THE CRY OF TRIUMPH. 


waves in the fresh breeze ; and these blue bil- 
lows as they reached the rocks in the small har- 
bor, and at the foot of the gigantic headland, 
broke into snowy spray, which glittered in the 
sunshine. 

Dotting the restless surface, covered with 
spangles, and growing more and more restless 
and brilliant as the breeze freshened, were a 
number of fishing-boats, witli small triangular 
sails, which the wind filled, driving the barks 
rapidly before it. 

As the morning drew on, the breeze fresh- 
ened still more and more, and began to blow 
a gale ; the fishing-boats were seen hastening 
landward ; then as they approached they were 
tossed dangerously aloft; as they reached the 
shore, and were dragged up and rescued, 
the roughest water-dogs of the coast were 
evidently well pleased to be ashore, and not 
exposed in their small skiffs to the gathering 
tempest. 

One sail-boat alone was visible now, beating 
up toward the headland. 

This craft, even at a distance, was seen not 
to be a fishing-smack, but a pleasure-boat, gayly 
painted, and with ladies on board ; for, as the 
boat veered and danced on fiio waves, her 


THE CRT OF TRIUMPH. 5 <> 

bright sides and the floating scarfs cf women 
were plainly visible. 

The wind grew stronger eve*y moment, and 
in a group upor. the strand, the rough “ wolves,” 
&s the fishermen were called, watched the boat 
which careened dangerously as it flew onward,, 
making straight for shore. 

“ That much sail is enough to sink her,” said 
a huge “wolf” in a ragged pea-jacket, and with 
hair growing down nearly to his eyes. 

“ The rudder is gone,” said a calm voice be 
hind the speaker. 

The “wolf” turned round with a scowl. His 
eyes fell upon the neatly-dressed figure of Mi 
Delamere, amateur fisherman. 

“ What are you a-saying there ? ” he growled, 
contemptuously. 

“ I say,” said Delamere, otherwise our friend 
the sailor, Earle, “ that the rudder is gone, and 
the man in that boat is a sailor, who is steering 
her ashore with his brains , as he has nothing 
else.” 

A low growl came from the “ wolf . 5 

“ Look here, my hoppadandy,” lie said, turn- 
ing to Earle and clenching his fist; “who an 
you that come here to larn old sailors theix 
business ?” 


60 


THE CA Y OF TRIUMPH. 


He advanced threateningly upon the young 
man as he spoke. Earle did not move, 

“ Who are you ? ” shouted the “ wolf,” raising 
his arm to strike at him. “Fll smash your 
headpiece if — ■” 

The sentence was not concluded. 

Earle planted his left foot three feet in ad 
vance of him, followed rapidly with his right, 
and as the ball of the foot touched the earth 
his right fist darted out, backed by the whole 
weight of his body thrown with it, and struck 
the giant exactly where the low shag of hair 
terminated nearly between his eyes. 

The “wolf” fell as though a battering-ram 
had struck him. 

But, rising, stunned and dizzy, he rushed at 
his opponent. 

In a minute he was down again. The rough 
crowd, whose sympathies had all been with their 
own representative, uttered a shout of admira 
tion at the amateur's science. It was plain in- 
deed that the slight stranger was a perfect mas- 
ter of the art of boxing, and his adversary, in 
spite of his size, was hesitating whether he 
should renew the attack or expend his remain, 
ing energies in violent curses, when a cry 
attracted the at ten don of every one— a cry so 


THE CRY OF TRIUMPH. 


61 


shrill and piteous that it thrilled through the 
roughest person present. 

Earle glanced quickly in the direction of the 
cry, that is, toward the sea. That glance told 
him all. The sail-boat had run before the wind 
with the rapidity of a dry leaf borne onward by 
the breeze — had nearly reached the land; but 
at two hundred yards from shore had struck the 
reef, capsized, and a man and two women were 
seen clinging to the frail mast and the ropes, 
which rose and fell and beat upon the threaten- 
ing surge. 

The cry had issued from the women, and the 
crowd was instantly in commotion. 

A boat was launched, and two of the “wolves’'' 
sprung into it. At fifty yards from the shore 
it capsized, and the men only reached land 
again by vigorous swimming. 

A second attempt was made. In this case the 
boat swamped at twenty yards from shore* 

A glance toward the overturned sail-boat 
showed that the strength of the young ladies — 
for such they were now seen to be — was rapidly 
deserting them. The waves beat them cruelly 
in the face, and tore at them. The wind roared 
at them, nearly wrenching the frail hands from 
the mast. The man, clinging to the gunwale, 


62 


THE CRY OF TRIUMPH. 


could afford them no assistance. In ten minutes, 
it was plain, they would desert their hold, and 
the surf would engulf them. 

Suddenly, the crowd, who had been nearly 
paralyzed, was seen to divide. 

In the open space, Earle was seen, without hat 
coat, boots, waistcoat, or cravat, — a sailor in shirt 
and pantaloons, — with a hatchet in his belt and 
a rope the thickness of a man’s finger tied 
around his waist. 

“ Stand back ! ” his clear voice rang out. 

And throwing himself into the boiling mass, 
he struck out vigorously for the wrecked boat. 

As he rose and fell like a cork upon the 
waves, the crowd shouted, following him with 
eyes of admiration. Every instant they ex- 
pected to see him disappear, and held their 
breath as he sank in the hollows. As he rose 
again, swimming like a giant, the roar of 
voices sounded above the storm. 

It is a splended spectacle to see man contend- 
ing with the forces of nature. The sailor was 
defying the sea lashed to fury. The waves 
struck him with their huge hands, buffeting and 
howling at him — and he went on. The spray 
cut his face and filled his eyes, blinding him — 
and he went on. Hurled into the hollows of 


THE CRY OF TRIUMPH. 


63 


the billows, he rose like a leaf, cutting the 
foam. The crowd hurrahed, and held their 
breath, and ran into the sea, grasping the ropa 
affixed to the sailor’s waist. 

Suddenly a shout, which seemed to drowr the 
thunder of the wind, rose. 

Earle had reached the boat and affixed the 
rope to a ring in the ornamental headpiece. 
Then he tore the rigging from the mast, bounc 
the young ladies by the body to the slight rail 
around the deck ; cut away the mast ; and, ris- 
ing up in the water, waved his arm toward the 
shore. 

At that signal the crowd shouted, and began 
to pull. The disabled craft obeyed the rope. 
Rolling, tossing, rising, falling, groaning, creak- 
ing in all its timbers, it approached the shore. 

But the danger was coming. Within twenty 
yards of land an enormous wave rushed at the 
prey about to escape, and with one blow broke 
the frail craft into a dozen pieces. 

- The young ladies disappeared, and a great 
wave rolled over them. 

Then they reappeared as suddenly. With 
his hatchet Earle cut the ropes which secured 
them to the pieces of wreck ; the man of the 
boat seized one, and Earle seized the other,* 


THE CRY OF TRIUMPH 


64 

five minutes afterwards, the fishermen had res* 
cued the former; and then Earle appeared, 
staggering, panting, struggling to reach dry 
ground, the inanimate form of a girl clasped in 
his arms. 

The fishermen hastened toward him. A 
great wave hurled itself — the last defiance of 
the sea — in their faces, and forced them back. 
But that wave drove Earle onward. 

As it receded, he was on firm earth. 

With his left arm around the girl, he raised 
his right aloft as though waving his hat, 
uttered a low cry of triumph, and, staggering, 
fell upon the sand, his head upon the bosom of 
the girl. 




CHAPTEK X. 

HOW THE SAILOR EARLE BECAME ONE OF THB 
“ WOLVES.” 

X tlie afternoon of the same day, Earle 
was about to issue from the hostelry of 
the Cat and Bell , when a thundering 
knock at his door made him turn quick- 
ly toward a brace of pistols lying upon the 
table. 

“ Has my good friend Sir Murdaugh West- 
brooke perchance gained an inkling of my real 
character, and of what is in store for him?” 
he muttered. And turning to the door, — 

u Come in ! ” he said. 

As he uttered the words, he cocked one of hia 
pistols, prepared for whatever was to come. 

The door opened, and the huge “ wolf ” with 
whom he had fought in the morning, entered. 

5 ( 66 ) 



66 HOW EAR^E BECAME A "WOLE.' 


His head nearly touched the low ceiling. 
His countenance was a great mass of shaggy 
hair. Low down on his forehead grew a similar 
mass, and he resembled rather a wild animal 
than a human being. 

“I be come to see you, master,” said the 
wolf. 

“ And who are you ? ” retorted Earle. 

“ Hy name be Goliath, master,” returned the 
Anak, “ and the wolves are waiting to catch you 
up and make you one of us.” 

Earle gazed at the speaker, and saw that this 
man was a friend. If there was any doubt of 
the fact, his next words removed it. 

“I felt your hand to-day, master,” said 
Goliath : “ it is heavy, but I want to feel it 
again.” 

As he spoke, Goliath extended a paw as large 
nearly as a ham, and half covered with hair. 

“ Good 1 ” said Earle ; “ there it is.” 

And he reached out his own. It was small, 
bronzed, and had the grasp of a vice. 

The giant winced. 

“ It hits hard, and it hits fair,” he said. “ I be 
sorry I quarrelled, master ; but I am going to 
make up that.” 

Suddenly he turned up Earle’s cuff. A blue 


HO W EARLE BECAME A “WOLF." 67 

anchor was tattooed, sailor-fashion, on the white 
wrist. 

u I knew that,” said Goliath ; “ nobody but a 
sailor would ’a’ ventured as you did to-day.” 

“ Well, I am a sailor.” 

“ Which makes it all the better ; you knocked 
me down, and after that I would ’a’ fought you. 
You went out in the surf — and the ’longshore- 
men are a-going to make you a wolf !” 

As he spoke a loud roar was heard in the 
street without, — evidently uttered by the 
wolves. 

Earle laughed, and muttered, — 

u A strange life this of mine ! — to be made 
a chief of the Iroquois in Canada, and one of 
the wolves in Wales !” 

The roar was again heard. 

“The wolves be waiting, master!” said 
Goliath. 

“ Ready ! ” said Earle. 

And walking beside the giant, he descended to 
the street, where a great crowd of tattered, fierce- 
looking and shaggy-bearded ’longshoremen were 
gathered with intent to do him honor. 

“ Stop your howling ! ” shouted Goliath, 
“ and be orderly, will you ! ” 

The roar ceased for a moment, but was re- 


68 HOW EARLE BECAME A ' WOLF” 

Burned an instant afterwards with fresh zest 
The noise seemed to excite the crowd. Fron- 
hoarse shouts they proceeded to section. Earle 
suddenly found himself caught up, borne aloft 
in triumph, and then his captors at the head of 
whom was Goliath, surged into the low-pitched 
common-room of the inn, where Earle was 
placed upon a table in the midst. 

At his side, on the floor stood Goliah, one 
hand on his shoulder. 

‘‘What be your name, master?” said the 
giant. 

A singular sentiment moved the sailor. Con- 
tent to assume a false name with indifferent per- 
sons or enemies, — with these rough friends it 
was different. Something uncontrollable within 
him made him answer, — 

“ Edmond Earle ! ” 

At that reply a man who had been seated in 
a dark corner started, rose suddenly, and went 
out of the inn. As he disappeared, one of the 
’longshoremen scowled after him and laid his 
hand on his knife. The man who had gone out 
was Wilde, the emissary of Sir Murdaugh West 
brooke ; and Earle, in thus uttering his rea' 
name, had committed a terrible imprudence. 

He did not see Wilde, however. The w< 


HO IV EARLE BECAME 4 ' WOLF* 69 

were admitting him, with rude ceremonies, into 
the pale of their order. 

A gigantic beaker of usquebaugh was first 
raised to his lips; each drank from it in turn, 
and then the residue was poured upon the 
floor. 

As the liquor fell from the beaker, Goliath 
exclaimed, in his voice of thunder, — 

“ So the blood of all who hunt the wolves 
shall be poured out ! ” 

And clapping Earle on the shoulder, — 

“From to-day you be a wolf, master 1” he 
said. 

The wolves roared in approbation. 

“Join hands!” thundered Goliath. 

At the word the wild figures linked hands 
and began to dance around the table. Earle 
had never witnessed so strange a spectacle. 
There was something at once ferocious and 
grotesque in these ragged figures circling the 
table in their mad dance. Three times they 
*hus whirled around him, and then tne circle 
broke and they again caught the sailor up on 
ilieir shoulders. All resistance was impossible. 
He was borne forth and carried through the 
itreets in triumph. 

When, an hour afterwards, he was realeased, 


70 HOW EARLE BECAME A “WOLF: 


and woke as it were from this orgy of dream 
!and, he saw Goliath standing beside him, and 
heard the giant say, — 

" Yon be one of us now, master ; and woe b€ 
to him who lays his hand on yon ! ” 

At the 6ame moment the man Wilde entered 
Westbrooke Hall, and hastened to the baronet. 

" Well ? ” said the master. 

“I have something terrible to report, sir!” 
said the man. 

"What?” 

And the baronet rose, as if on steel springs. 

“ The person who visited you here last night, 
sir — ” 

Wilde paused. 

" Speak 1 ” shouted the baronet, shaking him 
by the collar. 

" Is — who would have believed it — ! ” 

The baronet’s hand passed to the man’s 
throat. 

" Is — is — ” muttered Wilde, in a half -stran- 
gled voice — " Edmond — Earle ! ” 

The baronet turned ghastly pale, and stared 
at the speaker with stupefaction. 

"Edmond — Earle!” he said in a low raice, 
" the Edmond Earle ? ” 


HOW EARLE BECAME A “WOLF." 71 


“ The same, sir. There was something famil- 
iar in his look.” 

The baronet’s eyes blazed. 

“ Then he is not dead, after all 1 ” 

“ No, since we have seen him sir, and I have 
heard him give his name as Earle.” 

In a few words the man related what had 
occurred at the inn. 

“Yes — I see now — I was deceived,” said 
the baronet in a low tone. “ He is here — cool 
and determined — ready, and he knows my 
secret. Fool ! — from this moment he is dead ! 
Dead men tell no tales.” 




CHAPTER XL 


ELLINOR MAVERICK. 


| HEN broken in upon by the wolve®, 
Earle had been preparing to take a 
ride. 

An hour after the ending of the cere- 
mony which inducted him into the band of 
w wolves,” he mounted a horse procured at the 
inn, and set out on his ride. 

As he went on, a singular emotion agitated 
him. The occasion of this was the name of the 
gentleman and ladies whom had rescued. 
This name was Maverick. 

Maverick ! Could it then be the head of this 
family whom Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke had 
murdered? Had no steps been taken to dis- 
cover the criminal ? Into what black mystery 
was he, Edmond Ea:Ie, about to plunge ? Ho 

<■»> 


ELLINOR MAVERICK. 


73 


had received tlie warm thanks of the gentleman 
and two young ladies whom he had rescued. 
They had urged “ Mr. Helamere,” in the most 
pressing manner, to visit them at their home, 
“ Maverick House.” The road had been 
pointed out to the sailor ; and, emerging from 
the fishing village, he already saw the mansion 
on its lofty hill, about a league distant. 

He soon reached the great gate, and riding up 
an avenue, dismounted and gave his bridle to a 
servant. Maverick House was ancient, but 
cheerful and inviting. Hogs were basking in 
the sunshine on the long portico, where the light 
filtrating through variegated foliage threw its 
twinkling shadows; and on the steps stood, 
smiling cordially and ready to welcome Earle, the 
gentleman of the boat, Arthur Maverick. 

Arthur Maverick was a young man of about 
Earle’s age; thin, pale, and sad-looking, but 
courteous and cordial. He welcomed the sailor 
warmly, and conducted him into the mansion, 
whose appointments were at once substantial and 
elegant. In a cage a linnet was singing ; old 
dogs wandered about ; and a lapdog, small and 
hideous, which made him immensely valuable, 
ran yelping to announce the visitor to the two 
young ladies whose lives he had saved. 


74 


ELLINCR MAVERICK. 


Ellinor Maverick, the eldest, was tal , with 
raven hair and dark eyes, instinct with a subtle 
fascination. The great eyes melted or fired ; the 
red lips, full and moist, curled satirically or were 
wreathed with dazzling smiles; in every out- 
line of her rounded and supple figure there was 
the superb beauty of the animal — the tigress 
you were apt to think ; and with only a slight 
effort of the imagination you might fancy the 
beautiful creature “ in act to spring.” 

Rose Maverick was altogether different 
About nineteen, — Ellinor was older, — slender, 
brown-haired, with soft, violet eyes, and an ex 
quisite expression of candor and goodness 
Rose made children and old ladies love her, 
and men take no notice of her. The latter went 
crazy about Ellinor, and did not even look at 
Rose. One was the dazzling sunlight, the other 
the pensive moonlight. From the first moment 
Earle’s eyes were dazzled ; and on his return to 
the inn that night, a strange throbbing of the 
heart accompanied his recollection of the superb 
Ellinor. 

On the next day he went to Maverick House 
again, and on the next, and the next. 

He was fascinated. That term best expresses 
hia sentiment towards Ellinor Maverick. It 


ELLINOR MAVERICK. 


n 

would oe incorrect to say that he loved her ; 
he was crazy about her, and the great melting 
or blazing eyes had wrought the charm. 

At times his neglect of the important object 
which had brought him to the coast of Pem- 
brokeshire weighed heavily upon his spirits. 
Was he not criminally disobeying the orders 
which he had received ? Was he not neglecting 
his sworn duty ? Would not the crew of the 
corvette wonder what had become of their cap- 
tain, and the boat at the secret rendezvous re- 
turn nightly to find him still absent, paying no 
attention to his appointment? Earle asked 
himself those questions, and gloomily shook his 
head. Then he would find himself beside 
Ellinor Maverick. All his depression would 
disappear. Her golden smile would shine upon 
him, and the dazzled moth would circle careless 
around the light, drawing every moment nearer 
to his fate. 

It came at last. Nearly ten days had elapsed 
since his first meeting with the young lady. 
He had never spoken of his love in plain words, 
for an instant, but now a littie incident drove 
him to that proceeding. 

Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke was the occasion 
of the denouement. Earle had well-nigh for- 


76 


ELL I NOR MAVERICK. 


gotten the baronet, and the strange history re< 
lared by the gypsy. Was the “ Giles Maverick, 
Esquire,” assassinated at the pool by him, a rel- 
ative of the family at Maverick House ? He 
had intended, often, to ask that question, but 
something had always prevented. Either the 
occasion was wanting, or his interviews with 
Arthur Maverick had been interrupted ; always 
something had intervened to withhold him from 
ascertaining the truth. 

At last the opportunity came. He was con- 
versing with Arthur Maverick one evening, 
when the latter pronounced the name of Sir 
Murdaugh Westbrooke. 

Earle looked keenly at him. 

“ Are you acquainted with that gentleman ? ” 
be said. 

“ Very well,” was the young man’s reply. 

“ And he is a friend? ” 

Arther hesitated. 

“ Ho,” he said, at length. 

\ Earle observed a singular coldness in his com- 
panion’s tones, and said, — 

“ You do not like the baronet ? ” 

“I feel some delicacy in replying to that 
question,” returned Arthur Maverick. 

“ Why ? ” sain Earle. 


ELLINOR MAVERICK. 


77 


“ Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke is a suitor foj 
the hand of my cousin.” 

Earle started, and looked at his companion in 
utter astonishment. 

•‘Your cousin ? Sir Murdaugh her suitor? 
Who is your cousin, my dear Mr. Maverick ? ” 

“ Ellinor. I thought you knew that she was 
not my sister, Mr. Delamere. She is the daugh- 
ter of my father’s brother. On the death of 
that gentleman she had no home, and came to 
live with us here. You seem astonished.” 

“ No, no,” stammered Earle. “ Sir Murdaugh 
Westbrooke a suitor! and for the hand of — 
why, ’tis monstrous ! ” And his face flushed. 
“ That is to say — may I ask you a question, Mr. 
Maverick ? You speak of your father’s brother ; 
he is dead, you say. Your father also is dead, 
is he Qot ? ” 

“ Some years since,” was the reply, in a low 
tone. 

“ May I ask the cause of his death ? ” 

Arthur Maverick’s head sank. 

“ lie was cruelly murdered, Mr. Delameie; 
and in the most mysterious manner ! ” 

“Ah! a m/urder , sir! ” 

“An infamous murder, by whom wo have 
never discovered. lie left home one evening 


78 


ELL1W0R MAVERICK. 


on horseback, and his dog returned some hours 
afterwards without him. It was a very intelli- 
gent blood-hound ; he is still living, old and al- 
most blind ; and he led the way to a pool in the 
woods, where my father’s body was discovered.” 

Earle remained for some moments silent. 
Then he said, — 

“ And no clue has ever been discovered to the 
murder ? ” 

“ None whatever. It is still wrapped in the 
profoundest mystery.” 

Earle nodded his head coolly, and said, — 

“ Pardon my intrusive questions, Mr. Maver- 
ick; I see they agitate you, and I regret them. 
To return to the worthy Sir Murdaugh West- 
brooke, your cousin’s suitor. Does she smile 
upon him ? ” 

“ I am afraid so.” 

“ You say that in the tone of one who regrets 
a thing,” said Earle, whose heart suddenly sank. 
“ Is it possible that the baronet, an aged and 
not agreeable person, I think, has succeeded in 
the role of a lover ( i ” 

Arthur Maverick did not reply for an instant, 
then he said, — 

“We are not wealthy, sir. Ellinor has 


ELLINOR MAVERICK . 


7S 

nothing; avid Sir Murdaugh is a peiBon of greal 
possessions.” 

“ Ah ! and hence he succeeds ! Miss Maver- 
ick barters her beauty against money. Pardon 
my rudeness, sir ; I am a sailor, and speak 
without ceremony. Her preferred suitor I It 
is monstrous ! It cannot be I I will know the 
truth ! ” 

And leaving his companion abruptly, Earle 
went with pale face and glowing eyes toward 
Ellinor Maverick, who was standing near one 
of the great windows in the drawing-room. 

Her golden smile said “ Come ! you have 
stayed away from me too long ! ” Her glance 
was magnetic, alluring, almost passionate, and 
seemed to pierce through him. 

Is Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke your suitor ? ” 
he said. “ Answer that question plainly, I pray 
you.” 

Her silver laugh rang out. 

“ Yonder he comes ; why not ask aim ? ” she 
said, pointing through the window. “ Strange 
that you and he have never met bofore, Mr. 
Delamere ! ” 





CHAPTER XIL 
“it is time !” 

FEW minutes afterwards Sir Murdaugh 
Westbrooke entered, clad as became his 
rank, and grinning in his most attract- 
ive manner. 

At sight of Earle, however, he suddenly grew 
livid, and the grotesque grin was succeeded by 
a glance full of menace. 

For an instant their hostile glances flashed 
and crossed like rapiers. Then Earle regained 
his coolness, continued to converse with Ellinor 
Maverick ; and that young lady’s handsome 
back was turned upon Sir Murdaugh. 

The baronet’s expression thereat grew veno- 
mous. His demeanor toward Earle was a 
mixture of apprehension and suppressed rage ; 
but no one noticed it — certainly not the fail 

(80» 



“IT IS TIME f" 


81 


Ellinor, who leaned forward, resting her rosy 
cheek upon her snowy hand, so as to exhibit 
the charms of an exquisitely rounded aim, and 
gazed at Earle with an air of deep and fascin- 
ated interest. 

That expression, in the eyes of a beautiful » 
woman, is dangerous. It had its full effect 
upon the sailor. He felt his heart beat, and 
the blood rushed to his checks. Through a sort 
of haze he seemed to see an angel, or a devil, 
he knew not which, whoso eyes said to him, 
“ You did right to take me away from that 
hideous satyr yonder. We are young. Love is 
the only true life. Love me, and I will love 
you, and be yours ! ” 

When a commonplace question from Rose 
Maverick broke the spell, Earle seemed to fall 
suddenly from some fairy realm into the cold 
world again. He turned quickly. Sir Mur- 
daugh Westbrooke was looking at him and 
Ellinor with all the furies raging in his heart. 

He rose — his visit had Irsted less than an 
hour, but it had seemed a century of torment.' 
Declaring stiffly that lie had only ridden out to 
take the air, and must now return, he bowed 
low, shot a wrathful glance at Ellinor Maverick 
and went out, accompanied by Arthur Maverick, 

6 


82 


“IT IS TIME l" 


whose manner throughout the interview had 
been perfectly courteous but also perfectly i it 
mal. 

Two hours afterwards, Earle in his turn 
mounted and directed his way toward the vil- 
lage. 

His head was turning, almost. A passionate 
scene had occurred between himself and the 
fair Ellinor on the portico. She had magnetized 
him, drawn him on, said “ Come ! ” with her 
eyes, and when he poured out his passion, 
quietly laughed at him. 

Ten minutes afterwards, he was riding away ; 
as he went he muttered to himself, — 

“ So that folly ends, and the end is fortunate, 
perhaps. Earle the sailor is not to cast anchor 
yet — so much the better ; the wind is fair, and 
there is fighting and sailing to do. Fighting ? 
Come ! I think there was some question of that 
once ! I’ve been crazy, but am sane now; I was 
dreaming, but am awake 1 To work, laggard ! 
and obey y our orders. You came hither under 
orders, and you are shirking your duty. Your 
men await you nightly, yonder ; act this night, 
and leave the accursed land where you’ve fallen 
into a woman’s toils ! Come ! to work ! Ah ! 
Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke, my dear assassin and 


“IT IS TIME! 


83 


rival, beware! This very night I Till lay a 
heavy hand upon you ! ” 

Ho was passing, as he thus muttered, through 
a dark hollow in the hills. 

“ It is time, brother ! ” said a voice, “ or he 
will lay his hand on you / ” 

And the speaker advanced from the shadow 
of a huge hemlock, beneath which he had been 
concealed. 

It was the gypsy. 




CHAPTER XIH. 

THE MAN IN THE COACH. 

ARLE, startled for an instant in spite of 
himself, by the apparition in his path, 
quickly regained his coolness, and drew 
rein to converse with his companion. 

“ You say — ? ” said Earle. 

“That Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke is plotting 
to destroy you,” said the gypsy. “I know it 
from hearing the thing with my ears, brother.” 

“ Tell me all about it.” 

And dismounting, Earle threw his bridle 
over his arm, and walked on beside the gypsy. 

“Well, I will do so, brother. Kightis the 
time to talk ; and I think the stars yonder are 
friendly to the brethren of the Rommanye 
Rye. Here is the way I discovered all. I had 
been to make a visit to Westbrooke Hall — ” 
( 84 ) 



THE MAN IN THE COACH. 


85 


“ Not to converse with the baronet on that 
business f ” interrupted Earl. 

The gypsy smiled in a manner which dis- 
played a double row of teeth. 

“ No, brother. To tell you the truth, I don’t 
like the thought of going there on that errand. 
Some accident might happen to me ; I might 
be set up in a chair, opposite that other grin- 
ning ‘old gentleman,’ iu the grave-clothes!” 
“ I understand,” said Earle. 

“ I had other business, and I succeeded in it, 
brother. I had made a little plot against the 
other wolf-hound. Some day, I said, I may 
have to visit Westbrooke Park. Then the 
hound will prove an ugly customer, and give 
the alarm. Better act in time, and pay my re- 
spects to his honor, the wolf-hound ! ” 
u I understand, 2 ’ repeated Earle. 

“ So I went to see this good watch-dog in his 
kennel,” continued the gypsy ; “ and to make my 
visit more acceptable, carried with me a piece 
of fresh meat. This I threw to our friend, the 
hound, just as he sprung out to give the alarm, 
lie gobbled it up instead of barking. I hid in 
the bushes near, and in about fifteen minutes 
the dog seemed to grow sick. Then he bit the 
ground and tugged at his chain, and e: dcd by 


86 


THE MAN IN THE COACH. 


rolling on his back, beating the air with hi* 
paws, and then lying quiet.” 

“ Poisoned \ ” 

u Yes, brother. He is not apt to trouble ua 
further. I saw that he was done for and has- 
tened to retreat from the park. When I reach- 
ed the great woods, I thought I was safe ; but as 
I was gliding through a thicket skirting the 
main road, I thought 1 heard footsteps in the 
undergrowth, and lay down listening. The 
steps came nearer. From my covert I saw a 
man, with a gun on his shoulder, pass within 
twenty feet of me, and as he approached the 
road I could hear the hoof-strokes of a 
horse.” 

“ The baronet ? ” 

“ Yes. He was coming back, it seemed, from 
a visit, as I soon found that he was in full 
dress. The man who was his gamekeeper, 
Wilde, had chanced to be going his rounds and 
met him. The baronet stopped, and I could 
see, through an opening, by the starlight, that 
his face was pale and full of anger at some- 
thing.” 

Earle nodded. 

"I can explain that Well, you saw, — 
doubtless you also heard.” 


THE MAN IN THE COACH. 


87 


“ Yes, brother, I was born with a great hank- 
ering after finding out everything. I crawled 
along, without making a noise, until I was 
within a few yards of these good people, and 
hiding in a clump of bush, listened. I had 
torn my rags to worse rags, but what I heard 
was worth the expense. I need not tell you 
what they said; it amounted to this — that you 
were to be waylaid and c got rid of.’ That was 
the baronet’s phrase. As to me, I was to be 
treated in the same way. You see he knows 
we Jcnow his secret, and as long as we are alive 
he is not safe. He is in a violent rage with 
you at something, besides, which occurred to- 
night, it seems ; and, hearing the name, 
i Maverick House,’ where, it appears, you 
were on a visit, I thought I’d warn you in time, 
brother.” 

“ You did well, — forewarned, forearmed,” 
said Earle. “Was anything more said between 
the worthies ? ” 

“They were interrupted.” 

“ By whom? ” 

“ As they were talking in low tones, on the 
side of the road, within a few feet of me, a fine 
coach, drawn by four horses, came along, going 
toward the Hall, and, as it passed, a gentleman 


88 


THE MAN IN THE COACH 


put his head out of the window, an said, 4 Is 
not that Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke ? : — ‘Yes,' 
the baronet replied. — ‘ I am the discount 
Cecil,’ said the man in the coach. And the 
baronet bowed, came up, talked for some min- 
utes, and at last got into the coach, which rolled 
away tow T ard the Hall, Wilde having taken his 
master’s horse. Then I set off to find you ; the 
grass has not grown under my feet. What will 
you do, brother ? ” 

But Earle did not reply. A sudden glow had 
come to his countenance. 

“ Are you sure you heard aright ? ” he ex- 
claimed. “The man in the coach gave his 
name as Yiscount Cecil ? ” 

“I heard the name distinctly, brother. It 
jeems to interest you.” 

“ It does, I swear to you ! And you heard 
nothing more ? ” 

“Only something about his having come 
down to his estates, from Parliament, to see 
the baronet on business, or something of the 
sort.” 

“ Good ! ‘ Parliament,’ — that is enough ! 

i Yiscount Cecil,’ — there can be no doubt. It 
is he I ’* 

“ What do you say, brother f 


THE MAN IN THE COACH. 


89 


‘•'Nothing. Ah, the man in the coach - the 
L-an in the coach ! That decides me. I might 
have been weak — this makes me resolrte!” 
And turning to the gypsy, he added, — 

“ I am about to leave this country, brother 
Do not count on my co-operation with you, and 
look out for yourself. One thing only I can 
promise you : I think that I will rid you of your 
enemy, Sir Murdaugh "Westbrooke. All is 
ready! To-night decides! Farewell, brother! 
May the stars guide you ! ” 

He uttered the last words in the gypsy 
tongue, and made a salute peculiar to the fra- 
ternity. 

Then, putting spurs to his horse, he disap- 
peared at full gallop in the darkness. 

The gypsy gazed after him with an ex- 
pression of wonder, and then began running 
in the same direction ; that is, toward Oldport 
The village was not, however, Earle’s destina- 
tion now. Once out of sight of the gypsy, an 
individual whom he seemed to decline trusting, 
ho turned to the right, rode rapidly toward the 
coast, reached the foot of the great headland, 
on which we have witnessed his interview with 
the sad-looking woman, and, dismounting eon 
cealed his horse in a thicket 


90 


THE MAN IN THE COACH. 


He then advanced upon foot, without losing 
a moment, toward the spot where he had dis 
embarked from the boat, and following a wind 
ir.g path, along narrow ledges of rock, came in 
sight of the little indentation in the precipice. 

The boat was awaiting him. There were 
four men in it — they seemed to have just 
arrived. 




CHATTEL, XIY. 


THE NIGHT MAHCH, AND IT8 OBJECT. 


rHE young sailor passed along the narrow 
ledge, with the activity of a chamois, and 
suddenly stood in presence of the boat’s 
crew. 

All hands went to their hats. 

“ Welcome, Captain!” said one whose tone 
was that of an officer ; “you see we obey orders. 
I was growing uneasy.” 

“Thanks, Dargonne! Well, the time has 
arrived. The affair will take place to-night. 
Come ashore, order the men to follow us. I 
see they are armed, as I ordered. Direct them 
to make no noise and come on quickly, keeping 
ns in sight.” 

Lieutenant Dargonne, a small w iry -looking 

(91) 


92 


THE NIGHT MATCH. 


personage, clad in plain clothes, like the men 
turned and communicated Earle’s orders. 

The men silently stepped from the boat : 
attached it to a splintered rock by a chain, anc 
followed Earle and Dargonne, who passed back 
along the narrow path by which Earle had 
come. 

Reaching the slope of the headland again 
toward the interior, Earle went to the thicket 
in which he had tethered his horse, untied the 
animal, led him by the bridle, and, followed 
by the sailors, made a circuit so as to avoid 
Oldport, and approached Westbrooke Hall. 

“ The moment has come now, my dear Dar- 
gonne,” he said to his companion, “ to tell yoM 
my project. I have not done so before, in obe 
dience to orders. A few words will explain 
everything. France and England are at war 
In America the war has been barbarous, they say 
on the part of England, and it seems growing 
as barbarous here. The English admiralty 
Lave issued orders to their cruisers to descend 
upon the French coast, whenever an opportunity 
offered, and carry off persons of position and 
influence to be held as hostages. This policy 
has been adopted in obedience to the wishes of 
the English party in power, and this party is 


THE NIGHT M^RCH. 


93 


led in Parliament by Viscount Cecil, 'who made 
a violent oration urging the policy I speak of. 
Ilis oration was reported in the English journals ; 
— these were transmitted to His Majesty, King 
Louis; in consequence, the cruisers of His 
Majesty have received orders to retort by de- 
scending upon the English coast and carrying 
off any persons of rank and importance whom 
they can lay their hands on.” 

Dargonne made a sign that he understood 
perfectly. 

“ Blow for blow ! That is only fair,” he 
said. 

“ Entirely fair, my dear Dargonne ; and now 
to come to the work before us. When I re- 
ceived the general order to land at any point I 
thought proper on the English coast for the 
object in view, I decided to visit the coast of 
Pembrokshire, hoping to seize the Viscount 
Cecil himself. I had already visited this coast, 
as you know ; and the viscount’s large estates 
lay near Oldport. I might find him at home 
after Parliament, and that would be superb. 
So I came, but soon found that the viscount 
was still in London ; then I planned the seizure 
of a cousin of his, Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke. 
I visited Westbrooko Hall to reconnoitre, and 


u 


THE NIGHT MARCH 


did so. Tbs a. the attack would have been 
made — it should have been — but I have been 
weak, Dargonne ! No more of that — it is over! 
I am Earle the sailor again, and will act like 
him. I was to have made my attack on West- 
brooke Hall to-night, my object being to carry 
off the baronet, the viscount’s cousin. But 
suddenly an immense piece of good fortune has 
happened to us. The viscount himself has 
arrived ! ” 

“Viscount Cecil 1” 

“ Himself — to-night.” 

“ The man who set the whole policy against 
France in motion ! ” 

“The very man. And think — we shall seize 
him to-night ! He is at Westbrooke Hall ! ” 

Dargonne clucked his tongue in a rapturous 
manner. 

“Magnificent!” he exclaimed. 

“ Is it not ? ” said Earle, his eyes sparkling with 
joy. “Such an opportunity to win rank and 
distinction is seldom offered to a privateersman.” 

“Notin one hundred years, Captain ! It is 
splendid — unheard of Viscount Cecil — not 
only a Lord, but the man His Majesty hates! 
W e will be presented — thanked, at court. J eau 
Bart will be forgotten 1 ” 


THE NIGHT MATCH. 


95 


Earle made a gesture checking his compan- 
ion. 

“The work is not done; we may fail,” bs 
mid. 

“Fail?” 

“May not succeed in seizing his lordship and 
the baronet, for I aim to secure both. All 
human affairs are doubtful.” 

“This must succeed! What are the obsta- 
cles ? Are there retainers to meet our cutlasses 
— dogs to alarm them ? ” 

“Fortunately no dogs. The only one was 
poisoned to-night and will not be able to an- 
nounce our approach. And as to retainers, they 
are few. The viscount, and possibly the baro- 
net, will, however, make resistance.” 

“A trifle.” 

“Let us undervalue nothing, Dargonne. I 
have succeeded and failed ; but if I fail now, it 
will be after exhausting every effort. The vis- 
count is at Westbrooke Hall — there it is through 
the opening in the trees yonder! We will ap- 
proach without noise, and enter either by surprise 
or escalade. If the viscount is captured, he will 
be mounted on this horse — the baronet cn 
another from his own stables, — and they will 
be conducted rapidly to the boat, thence to the 


96 


THE NiGHl MARCH. 


corvette; and we will make sail for Fiance, 
and be out of sight of the coast bj daylight.” 

They had reached the wall of the park. 
Earle threw the bridle of his horse over a bough 
in a sheltered nook, and at one bound cleared 
the wall, followed by Dargonne and the sailors. 

As he did so, a shadow glided from beneath 
an oak. At one bound Earle seized the shadow 
— it was the gypsy. 

66 You hurt my throat, brother,” said tho 

gypsy- 

“ Ah, it is you ! How did you come here % ” 

“ I followed you, brother,” returned the vaga- 
bond coolly; “and if you are willing, I will 
help you in your work.” 

Earle reflected for an instant. It was plain 
that the gypsy had no motive to prove false tc 
him ; and the presence of the men made it hn 
possible for him to escape and give the alarm if 
he wished to do so. 

“ It is well, brother,” said Earle ; “ follow me 
and obey my directions.” 

The gypsy fell back to the ranks of the 
sailors. 

“ See that the men make no noise now, Dar- 
goune,” said Earle, “ and above all, that no fire- 
arms are used. The attack will be made from 


THE NIGHT MARCH 


07 


fcha rw it of the house, to prevent resistance and 
an alarm. Let every one preserve silence and 
follow me.” 

As he spoke, they came to the desolate-loc k- 
ing expanse immediately in front of West- 
brooke Hall. 




CHAPTER XV. 


THE VISCOUNT CECIL. 


|ET us precede the assaulting party, j*nd 
ascertain what was going on in Vest- 
brooke Hall at the moment when they 
silently followed the path through the 
woods to seize the coveted prize. 

In the large apartment where the interview 
between Earle and the baronet had taken place, 
Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke and the Viscount 


Cecil were seated, coldly conversing. 

The viscount was a gentleman of command- 
ing appearance, and had once been handsome ; 
ill health, or some other cause, however, had 
reduced a frame once powerful. It was an 
invalid, almost, who talked with the baronet, 
but an invalid of superb and commanding ex- 
pression and bearing. 


( 98 ) 


THE VISCOUNT CECIL. 


99 


“ I have long desired to hold this interview 
but have been constantly prevented, sir,” he said 
to the baronet, in a cold tone. 

“ Its object, my lord \ ” was the formal ques- 
tion of the baronet. 

“ Family affairs ; and to propose to you an 
arrangement which may prove agreeable to 
us both.” 

Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke became more for- 
mal and stiff than before. Two icebergs seemed 
to have encountered each other ; under the fro- 
zen crust of these men’s countenances no emo- 
tion of any description was discernible. 

“ An 6 arrangement,’ my lord ? — you have an 
arrangement to propose to me ? ” said the baro 
net, with ill-concealed suspicion. “ I listen, and 
shall be glad to know of what character it is.” 

The viscount remained for a moment silent, 
his eyes fixed upon the floor; then he raised 
his head and said in measured and formal 
tones, — 

“ Permit me, in the first place, to state briefly 
the relations we now sustain toward each other, 
sir. That will lead to a clear understanding of 
the offer I propose to make you. When the 
last Lord Wentworth died, he was almost with- 
out blood relations. Two young cousins, you 


100 


THE VISCOUNT CECIL. 


and myself, sir, were the nearest, and were se- 
lected by him to be his heirs. By his will, you 
were to have the great Westbrooke property 
here ; I that upon which his lordship had resided 
in this neighborhood. That is correct, is it 
not, sir ? ” 

“ Wholly correct, my lord,” was the cold 
reply. 

“ I will proceed, then, sir. There was a pro- 
viso in the will, that if either you or myself 
died without issue, the survivor should inherit. 
Thus the entire property of Lord Wentworth 
would remain in his family. That also is cor- 
rect, sir, is it not ? ” 

“ Entirely, my lord.” 

“ Well, now for my proposition, sir. I do not 
propose to marry, and think it improbable 
that you design doing so. Thus you will in- 
herit from me, or I will inherit from you : the 
chance is even, perhaps. I am an invalid, but 
one of those invalids who live longer than 
strong men ; and your age is greater by some 
years than mine — in brief, I may survive 
you.” 

“It is possible, as your lordship says/' re 
turned the baronet, with his ghastly grin. 

“Well, I propose a compronfise , and I will 


THE VISCOUNT CECIL. 


101 


be entirely frank, sir, in stating its object. A 
great grief lias rendered me lonely — the death 
of my wife, — a fact of which you are aware. 
I am solitary and crave affection ; thus I have 
fixed my regards upon a young lady whom 1 
wish to adopt as my daughter. To this young 
lady I wish to leave a portion of my property; 
in fine, I propose, sir, to convey to you, now, 
one-half my entire estate, if, in return, you 
will execute an instrument settling the other 
half on the young lady, to be her own at my 
death.” 

“ The name of the young -ady, my lord, if 
you please ? ” said Sir Murdaugh, coldly. 

“ It is unimportant — I will withhold it for 
the present. What say you to my proposition, 
sir?” 

Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke rose, with a grin 
of unconcealed triumph. 

“ I say that circumstances render it impossi- 
ble for me to accept it, my lord ! ” 

) “ Circumstances ? Of what nature, sir ? ” 

“ I will be franker than your lordahip. The 
circumstance of my approaching marriage.” 

“ Your marriage ? ” 

w Your lordship dwells upon the word 
your; ’ it is scarce polite.” 


102 


THE VISCOUNT CECIL. 


The viscount suddenly grew freezing. 

“Your pardon, sir. It was, indeed, scant 
courtesy. I will not further trouble you, save 
to congratulate you upon your approaching 
nuptials.” 

The baronet bowed ironically. 

“ I can understand, sir,” said the viscount, in 
he same tone, “ that your parental anticipations 
quite overturn my own views. Your children 
may inherit my estate : so be it, sir. God has 
so decreed it.” 

Something like a convulsion passed over the 
paleface. Then it resumed its expression of 
lofty and commanding calmness, and the vis- 
count said, — 

“Will you be good enough to order my 
coach, sir ? I will sleep at my own home to- 
night.” 

As he uttered the words, the window in the 
adjoining room was driven in by a heavy blow, 
the sash was thrown up, and Earle, at the head 
of his men, leaped into the apartment. 



CHAPTER XVX 

THE ATTACK AND PURSUIT. 

ARLE advanced with drawn sword to- 
ward the viscount and baronet. 

“ Surrender, or you are dead l ” he 
said, presenting the point to the vis- 
count’s heart. 

The nobleman’s reply was to draw his dress- 
sword, and lunge straight at Earle’s breast. 

But the sailor was far too powerful for him. 
With a whirl of his weapon, he sent the dress- 
sword of the viseount spinning across the 
room. 

In spite of his disarmed condition, the vis- 
count continued to resist, and was with diffi- 
culty secured. 

"No harm is designed yotrr lordship,” said 

Earle. 

( 103 ) 



104 THE ATTACK AND PURSUIT. 


And he wheeled round to seize Sir Murdaugh 
Westbrooke. 

The baronet had disappeared, the explana- 
tion of which was simple. 

Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke, for reasons best 
blown to himself, had amused his leisure mo- 
ments by constructing in the wall of the apart- 
ment a secret door, which opened by means of 
a spring and closed in the same manner. Was 
the secret recess, or means of exit, intended to 
be employed in the event of a sudden advance 
by the officers of the law upon him? It is 
impossible to say, but there was the means of 
safety at hand, and the baronet made use of it. 

Finding that the viscount was in the power of 
the midnight assailants, Sir Murdaugh West- 
brooke determined to save himself. At one 
bound he reached the wall, leaned against the 
concealed knob, the door flew open, the baronet 
passed through it, and the panel flew to again, 
protecting, with its three inches of solid oak, 
the fugitive from all further danger. 

Thus the baronet had evaded him, but Earle 
had secured the greater prize. The frightened 
servants had fled at the first noise, and no oppo- 
sition was made. 

“ Now to gain the boat,” said Earle ; “ 


THE ATTACK AND PURSUIT . 103 


tin© is to be lost, as the alarm may be 
given 1 ” 

He made a sign and the great front door waa 
thrown open. 

t “ Your lordship will please go with ns qni 
etly,” he said to the nobleman. 

And the party, with the viscount in charge, 
passed out and hurried through the park. 
They soon reached the spot where they had en- 
tered, found the horse quietly awaiting them ; 
and Earle, with perfect courtesy, requested the 
viscount to mount. He did so without uttering 
a word. One of the sailors led the animal by 
the bridle; Earle and Dargonne walked on 
each side. The rest followed, and the cortege 
6et out rapidly in the direction of the coast. 

When they had gone a hundred yards, Earle 
turned to the viscount and said, — 

u I beg that your lordship will have no ap- 
prehensions. Ho harm will be done you, if 
you make no resistance.” 

“ Very well, sir ” was the viscount’s reply, in 
a cold and unmoved voice ; “ that at least is 
gratifying. You have not asked foi my parse, 
I observe.” 

Earle colored with anger, but suppressed this 
emotion at once. 


106 THE ATTACH AND PURSUIT 


“ We do not wish to inspect the contents ol 
your lordship’s pockets,” he said, stiffly. 

u May I ask your object, then, sir, in com- 
mitting this extraordinary outrage upon my 
person \ ” 

“ The object was to capture your lordship,” 
said Earle calmly. 

a To capture me ? ” 

“ Precisely.” 

“ For what reason ? I am really curious to 
ascertain the object which you have in view, 
sir. You appear to be a person of good breed- 
ing, if I may judge of your character by the 
tones of your voice ; and I need not inform 
you that curiosity is most painful when left 
ungratified.” 

There was a coolness and nonchalance in the 
viscount’s tones which highly pleased Earle, 
and made him respect his adversary. 

“ I compliment your lordship on your calm- 
ness, and thank you for your good opinion 
The object of this little night attack need 
not remain a secret. It is now unimportant 
whether your lordship knows or, is ignorant of 
the meaning of every thing. We shall carry 
you off, — it is probable at least, — and I trust 
that the safety of my men will rot require me 


THE ATTACH AND PURSUIT 107 


to put your lordship to death. I should regret 
that, and will not contemplate so painful a 
catastrophe.” 

“ You turn your sentences charmingly, sir ; 
and now for your object in carrying me off? ” 

“ It is my design to conduct you to France, 
my lord.” 

“ To France ? ” 

“ To the court of his French majesty.” 

“ A prisoner ? ” 

“ Of state or war, as you choose.” 

“ Ah ! I begin to understand. You retaliate 
for the late order of the English admiralty 
against French civilians ! ” 

“ Precisely, my lord.” 

“Then this affair assumes quite another 
aspect. Your name and rank? — you are a 
French officer ? ” 

“ I am, my lord. I have assumed the name 
of Delamere, but I am a captain in His Maj- 
esty’s navy, and my true name is Edmond 
Earle.” 

The viscount bowed. 

“All this changes things greatly, and nc 
blame whatever attaches to you, sir,” he said 
coldly. “ I regarded you, very naturally, as a 
bandit bent on plunder. I beg yoi to pardon 


108 THE ATTACK AND PCRSUIT. 


that injustice, since you are an o fficer acting :a 
obedience to orders. Thanks for the hJorma- 
tion thus communicated. I do not care to 
know anything further.” 

And the viscount relapsed into silence, busy, 
it seemed, with his own thoughts. 

Earle said no more, and the party proceeded 
rapidly on their way. Following the road by 
which they had come, they made the circuit of 
Oldport; and then Earle hastened still more, 
expecting every moment to hear or see some- 
thing that would give the alarm. Sir Mur- 
daugh’s first thought after the disappearance of 
the assailants would undoubtedly be to arouse 
the country — the audacious party might be fol- 
lowed, and either captured or killed ; all de- 
pended now upon expedition; and Earle pressed 
on at the head of his men toward the spot 
where the boat had been left. 

Suddenly the beacon light on the headland 
ehot up, and threw its ruddy glare around. 

, “What is that, pray?” said the viscount, 
coolly. 

“ A misfortune, my lord,” said Earle ; “ at 
least to us, for it will dissipate the darkness.” 

And glancing at the beacon fire he 
muttered, — 


THE ATTACK AND PURSUIT. 109 


“ Why is that kindled to-night ? ” 

He looked up. The appearance :£ the 
heavens explained all. Across the sky drifted 
rapidly black masses of cloud ; and the hoarse 
roar from the channel indicated that a storm 
wa3 approaching. Doubtless the solitary had 
seen that, and kindled her beacon to warn ves- 
sels off the headland. 

Earle’s brows were knit, and he hurried 
on. 

All at once, from an elevated point on the 
coast s<*uth of Oldport, a piece of artillery 
sent its long, hoarse thunder on the air. 

“ There is the alarm, my lord,” said Earle. 
“ Sir Murdaugh has not spared horseflesh and, 
the revenue station has given the alarm.” 

“ Do you think there is a probability of my 
rescue, sir?” said the viscount, with great 
coolness. 

“None at all, I am pleased to say, my 
lord.” 

“I will pay each one who takes part in 
rescuing me, a thousand guineas,” said the 
viscount, looking at the sailors. 

Earle laid his hand on his pistol and 
frowned. 

“Will your lordship be good enough to 


110 THE ATTACK AND PURSUIT. 


forbear from further observations of that na« 
ture ? ” he said, sternly, “ If my men are 
tempted again, I will blow out your brains, 
my lord ! ” 

The Viscount inclined his head, with un- 
moved coolness. 

“ You are right ” he said ; “ it was an indis- 
cretion under the circumstances ! I will there- 
fore say no more, but await events.” 

“You will do well, my lord. You will now 
dismount, if you please. ¥e are near the spot 
where a boat awaits you . 9 

The viscount dismounted without objection. 

Earle then hastened at the head of his party 
toward the narrow path along the ledge of 
rocks, leading to the spot where the boat was 
awaiting him. 

All at once the noise of hoofs was heard in 
the direction of Oldport. Lights dance 1 to 
and fro. The gun had given the alarm. 

“ What noise, pray, is that ? ” said the vis- 
count, quietly. 

“The mounted guard of the revenue 
station — they have ridden well, and seem to 
be piloted by some one 1 ” 

“ The affair grows interesting ! ” said the 
viscount, walking calmly beside Earle. 


THE ATTACK AND PURSUIT. Ill 


‘ I think we’ll get off with jour lordship l ” 
was the cool reply. And turning round, — 
u Lose not a moment ! ” he said to the men ; 
u the cavalry are on us 1 ” 

The sudden smiting of hoofs within two 
hundred yards came like an echo. 

“ To the ledge of rocks ! ” cried Earle ; “ once 
there we are nearly safe ! ” 

The hoof-strokes were silent. 

“ Quick ! they are dismounting ! ” cried Earle. 
All at once the pursuers were seen passing 
around a clump of bushes. They were follow 
ing on foot — about ten men under an officer, 
and the gigantic plume of fire on the headland 
showed them their game. 

Earle knit his brows savagely. 

“We will reach the boat or die fighting ! ” 
he said. “ Come, my lord ! ” 

And he dragged the viscount on. 

“ There is then some hope of my escape ? ” 
Baid the latter, coolly. 

“ None ! ” was Earle’s stern reply. “ I shall 
probably have the great honor of — dying with 
with your lordship!” 



CHAPTER XVTL 

GOLIATH. 

sailor had scarcely uttered these 
>rds when a sudden darkness spread 
elf over the landscape. 

The beacon fire disappeared as though 
a tempest had extinguished it. Had the wind 
blown it out, or had the recluse heaped fresh 
wood upon it in such quantities as to tempora- 
rily smother the blaze? It was impossible to 
say, but the light suddenly disappeared. Earle 
and his party were completly concealed from 
his pursuers. 

The sailor uttered an exclamation of triumph. 

“We are saved if the darkness continues I” 
he said. 

“The beacon seems extinguished, sir,” said 
the voice of the viscount in the darkness. 

(112) 



GOLIATH. 


113 


“ Yes, my lord? ” 

“ What does it mean?’ 

“ Fresh wood or the wind, probably.” 

“That is unfortunate.” 

“Or fortunate/' 

“ You are right, sir. We look at things, veiy 
naturally, in a different light. This path is 
extremely narrow.” 

“Your lordship runs no danger, holding 
my arm. Come! our pursuers are nearly 
upon us!” 

“ The revenue guard ? ” 

“ Yes, my lord.” 

“They are pressing you close, captain. Is 
it your intention, if I may ask, to blow out 
my brains rather than lose me? I ask from 
mere curiosity ; only to know what is coming.” 

“You are a brave man!” was Earle’s re- 
ply. “ No ! a thousand times no ! I am ordered 
to seize you, not to murder you ! ” 

The viscount nodded. 

“You say I am brave —I say that you 
are an officer and a gentleman. Now I will 
await the sequel. I have little furthei so- 
licitude.” 

“ And yet you are in very great danger.” 

u What ? ” 

8 


114 


GOLIATH. 


“ Yonr friends may fire on us, and kill you I * 

As Earle uttered the words a voice „ried 
“Halt!” and a shot was heard. 

The sailor staggered. 

u You are struck ! ” exclaimed the viscount. 

“Yes, my lord — and badly hurt, I think. 
But no matter ! ” 

“ I swear I regret it! ” 

u Thanks ! ” 

“ Surrender ! I give you my word of honor 
you shall be treated as an officer captured on 
honorable duty.” 

“ Surrender ? never ! ” gasped Earle ; “ I will 
die fighting before I will surrender ! ” 

And clutching the arm of the viscount, he 
dragged him violently toward the boat. 

The pursuers were rushing upon them with 
loud shouts. The darkness hid them, but the 
noise of their footsteps on the rocky ledge 
betrayed them. 

Earle dragged the viscount on. They reach- 
ed the boat. 

“ Make haste ! make haste, Dargonne ! Every 
instant counts ! ” cried Earle. - 

And pushing the viscount without cere- 
mony,— 

u Enter the boat, my lord,” he said, sternly. 


GOLIATH. 


115 


“ Then I am not to be rescut d aiUr all, it 
Beems/’ was the philosophic reply of the vis- 
count as he stepped upon the boat. 

The men leaped after him and Dargonne fol- 
lowed. 

w Come, Captain ! ” shouted Dargonne. 

As lie spoke, the foremost pursuers rushed 
on Earle. He felt a hand upon his throat. 
Then something like a heavy thuirq: was heard 
in the darkness, and the man who had seized 
Earle was hurled back as by the blow of a blud- 
geon. 

A second dull thump followed, and a second 
was prostrated in the same manner. 

Earle staggered to the boat which had not 
moved. 

u Put off, and return for me ! ” he exclaimed. 

u Never ! ” Dargonne cried. 

“ Obey ! ” said Earle, imperiously. “ It is 1 
who give orders here ! ” 

Dargonne bowed his head. Discipline con- 
quered. He made a sign, and the boat flew a 
dozen yards from shore. 

“ Row, row ! ” cried Earle ; “ they are about 
to fire on you ! ” 

A volley came like an echo, and one of the 
oarsmen uttered a cry of pain. 


116 


GOLIATH. 


“Howl” cried Earle a second tire 3 ; and th« 
boat darted toward the open sea. 

The sailor turned then to face his enemies, 
resol ved to die as he had promised he would. 
But suddenly a voice near him said, — 

“ 1 have knocked down the foremost ! Run 
up yonder and you be safe, master ! ” 

It was the voice of Goliath, the “ wolf.” 

“You?” said Earle. 

“I came ahead, thinking it was smugglers, 
meaning to fight for ’em, master. It be you, 
which is better. You be a ‘ wolf.’ There is 
the path.” 

He spoke hurriedly and pointed to the path 
leading up the cliff. Suddenly, shouts close at 
hand indicated that the main body of the pur- 
suers had reached the spot. Earle had just time 
to rush behind a rock and up the path when the 
ledge swarmed with his enemies. 

He hastened on up the steep path. Hia 
wound was bleeding profusely, and already his 
strength was nearly exhausted. 

He tore open the bosom of his shirt, and 
bound up the wound in the best manner possible. 
But the linen was almost instaLtly saturated 
with blood. 

Earle staggered on. 


GOLIATH. 


117 


llis head began to turn, and more than once 
he came near falling. 

Still he continued the painful ascent: the 
strength of his powerful will alone seemed to 
sustain him. 

At length, he had nearly reached the summit, 
where stood the hut of the recluse. The path 
wound around a ledge jutting over the sea. 

As Earle tottered along this path, on the very 
edge of the dizzy precipice, the beacon fire shot 
aloft suddenly — a great pillar of flame. 

Earle looked seaward. Half a mile from the 
headland, the boat containing the viscount was 
seen rapidly making for the open channel. 

“Safe!” the sailor muttered, “they will soon 
reach the corvette.” 

And he tottered on up the broken pathway 
his bosom heaving, his sight failing him. 

A few more steps, and he reached the sum* 
mit. Before him was the beacon and the hut. 
The solitary woman was seated on her bench. 

Earle staggered toward her. 

“ Mother ! ” came from him in a low murmur. 

A moment afterwards he had fallen, lifeless, 
nearly, upon the bosom of lfis mother. 



PART II. 

THE BLOOD-HOUND. 


CHAPTER L 

HUNTED. 

INCE the events just related more than a 
month had passed. 

Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke was seated 
in his library at Westbrooke Hall — 
cold, grim, gloomy, and knitting his brows, 
under whicli rolled, in their cavernous sockets, 
the threatening and bloodshot eyes. 

“ To think that he should have escaped !” lie 
muttered ; “ and 6ome day he will reappear — 
I feel it — and destroy me by uttering one word. 
What devilish accident ever threw him with 
( 118 ) 



HUNTEL. 


119 


that gypsy whom I have been hunting in 
vain? That vagabond, no doubt, witnessed 
what took place yonder, while prowling in the 
woods.” 

He half shuddered. 

“ I am standing on a volcano I ” he added in 
the same hoarse growl. “ At any instant I may 
be destroyed. Not by the gypsy : no one would 
credit the statement of a worthless vagrant 
against Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke ; but he — his 
statement — that is different. He is bold, deter- 
mined ; a man of character, and can ruin me if 
he chooses. He will return hither ; that girl has 
made him her slave. Oh ! to find him ! to drive 
a bullet through him ! to seal his lips by pistol 
or poniard, and at one blow insure my safety, 
and what is almost as important — !” 

He turned round suddenly. Hurried steps 
were heard in the corridor. He started to his 
feet, turned pale, and his eye fell upon a brace 
of pistols lying on the table. 

Wilde entered, or rather rushed in. 

“You?” 1 

The baronet drew a long breath. 

“ What is the matter ? ” 

u Something important, your honor 1 ” ex 
claimed the gamekeeper. 


120 


HUNTED. 


And in hurried words he explaimed the cause 
of his abrupt entrance. We shall sum up hia 
communication in a few words. Knowing his 
master’s anxiety to ascertain all in reference to 
Earle and the attack on the hall, he had exerted 
himself to the utmost in his character of spy 
and secret emissary. Lurking and listening at 
the Cat and Bell, and keeping his eyes as well 
as his ears open, he had managed on this day to 
ascertain the fact that Earle was wounded on 
the night of the attack. He had then examined 
the ground where the embarkation on the boat 
had taken place; observed the path up the 
precipice ; ascended it ; concealed himself 
behind a rock ; seen Earle through the window 
of the hut, and hastened back to his master with 
this highly important intelligence. 

It acted like a blow. 

The baronet started to his feet, and ex 
claimed, — 

“At last! this removes every danger at 
once i ” 

“ ITe is a desperate man, sir,” said Wilde 
“We must take a party with us.” 

“ Eight. I’ll send a note to the officer com 
manding at the revenue station.” 

And sitting down, he hurriedly wrote, — 


HUNTED. 


121 


w Sir, — Information has just reached me 
that the leader of the party who attacked my 
house some time since, and carried off the Vis* 
count Cecil, is now lurking on the coast, at a 
point not far from Oldport. 

“ As the attack on my house was a personal 
giie vance, and the abduction of my cousin, the 
Viscount Cecil, another, I offer to take command 
of a party to arrest the chief of the bandits. 
If you approve of this, send the men to West- 
brooke Hall without delay. Loss of time will 
probably defeat the object in view.” 

This note he signed, sealed, and dispatched by 
Wilde himself. 

Three hours afterwards the man returned, at 
the head of half a dozen mounted men. The 
shades of evening approached. It was the best 
hour for their project. Without a word, Sir 
Murdaugh Westbrooke mounted his horse, and 
made a sign to Wilde to do likewise. Then 
they set out, followed by the men, over nearly 
the same path which Earle and his party had 
pursued, which enabled them to avoid Oldport. 

Wilde had made this suggestion. 

“Better not pass through the village, sir,” 
he said ; “ the wolves do not like you, from your 


122 


HUNTED. 


activity in arresting their friends tlie smuggler* 
More than this — he is one of them. They 
made him a wolf in regular form a month oi 
more ago. They will warn him or resist you ; 
for they are capable of anything.” 

“ You are right,” returned Sir Murdaugh in 
a low tone ; “ lead the way by the safest road. 
There must be no failure — and listen, Wilde !” 

He sunk his voice still lower. 

“ This man must not be arrested ! ” 

Wilde returned the meaning glance. 

u He must die ! ” 

The man nodded. 

“I understand you, sir; better give your 
orders.” 

The party were following a bridle-path 
through the woods. Sir Murdaugh West- 
brooke turned to the men. 

“ Let every man pay attention ! ” 

AL eyes were bent on him. 

“ The man we are in pursuit of is a desperate 
character. If he makes the least resistance, kill 
him. You will know if In resists by my firing 
upon him. At that signal, every man aim at his 
heart 1 ” 

The men were regular soldiers, and accus- 
tomed to obey orders without dispute. Theii 


HUNTED. 


123 


heads moved in assent ; and, directing them tc 
follow him a ; the distance of twenty yards, the 
baronet rode on with Wilde. 

“This is better, after all/ he said in a low 
tone, with a gloomy and lowering frown ; “ this 
man must die for more ref sons than one. lie 
knows what will destroy both you and me — he 
stands in my way yonder at Maverick House 
and there is still another reason, as I need not 
tell you , which makes liis death necessary.” 

He paused a moment, and added in a still 
lower tone. 

“ Let him die, then ! And there is no reason 
to spare him. He is an enemy of the country, 
and has committed burglary and abduction. 
His life is forfeited to the law. He will hang 
for what he has done. But before he hangs he 
will speak, Wilde ! — he will speak, do you hear ? 
And then it is you and I who will mount the 
gallows after him.” 

Wilde’s expression of countenance was one of 
much disgust at this announcement. The word 

O 

“gallows” seemed to have a sickening effect 
upon him. He shuddered. 

“Your honor is ixglit. There is nothing tc 
do but shoot him down. I have my carbine 
ready ; and he will not get off.” 


124 


HUNTED. 


“ Good ! ” 

Anl the baroiet rode on in silence. The 
party made the circuit of Oldport, keeping i n the 
shadow of the woods. Evening gradually drew 
near, and just at sunset they reached the forest 
on the slope of the headland, from which it was 
easy to gain on foot the path leading up the 
precipice. 

“ Dismount and follow me,” said the baronet y 
addressing the men. 

And they silently dismounted, tethered theii 
horses, and followed the baronet and Wilde. 

The gamekeeper rapidly led the way along 
the ledge to the spot where the boat had awaited 
Earle. They did not look out toward the chan- 
nel upon which the mists of night had descended. 
Had they done so, they might have perceived a 
small boat vigorously rowing towards the head- 
land ; and on the horizon of water, a dusky sail 
beating up in the same direction. 

Both escaped the attention of Wilde and the 
baronet. 

a It was here that the viscount was brought,” 
said Wilde, “ and our man escaped up that path, 
Better tell the men to be quiet. I will lead 
the way, your honor.” 

u Do so.” 


HUNTED. 


125 


Ho followed Wilde, and was followed in 
turn by the men. 

As they ascended the steep and dangeions 
path, the last red beams of the sun died away in 
the channel mist ; and the moon, a great crim- 
son wheel, was rolled into the eastern sky above 
the fringe of the savage looking evergreens on 
the horizon. 

“ Did he go up this path after being wounded ? 
It is hard to believe that,” muttered the baro- 
net. 

“ There is the proof of it.” 

And Wilde pointed to blood-stains on a 
rock. 

“ lie must have leaned against that rock; 
and he went this way, or by some other, as I 
saw him yonder.” 

“ Yes, yes ! Come, we are losing time I ” 

And he hastened after Wilde up the danger 
ous pathway. 

u Who is this woman with whom he has taker 
refuge ?” he panted. 

“ A strange character ; a sort of solitary.” 

“ 1 have heard of her.” 

“You will see her soon. There is the hut.” 

And Wilde pointed to the cabin of the re 
cluse. 


126 


HUNTED. 


In a few minutes they had passed the dizzy 
ledge near the summit, and just as the last light 
of day was dying away from the headland, thfl 
baronet, at the head of Wilde and the men, 
rushed upon the hut. 

In a moment they reached it, and the baronet, 
pistol in hand, threw himself against the door. 

It yielded and flew open. The baronet raised 
his weapon. 

But all at once his arm fell, and he staggered 
back as though a heavy blow had struck him. By 
the last light of day, it could be seen that his face 
had grown livid. Crouching, his mouth half 
open, and displaying in full relief the hideous 
tusks at each corner, with eyeballs starting from 
his head almost, and a cold sweat bursting forth 
upon his forehead, he was gazing at the solitary 
woman, who, erect, cold, and with her eyes 
fixed intently upon him, stood stiffly in the cen- 
tre of the apartment. 

“ You ! ” exclaimed the baronet, in a voice 
nearly stifled by fear or astonishment. “ You ! 
Is it a corpse I see \ You 1 Then you are not 
dead I ” 

“ 1 am alive, as you see,” returned the recluse 
in a cold and unmoved voica 

Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke recoiled, gazing 


HUNTED. 


at lier with an air of stupefaction. In spile of 
bis self-possession, he trembled. 

“You! ” he repeated. And he drew a long, 
deep breath, as though something were pressing 
heavily upon his breast. 

“ I, and I alone ! He whom you seek is not 
here.” 

The baronet glanced aiound. It was utterly 
impossible that any one could be concealed in 
the cabin. 

“ Good ! ” he said. “ That matter can wait, 
then. I see you know on what errand I came. 
I, in my turn, wish to know how it is that you 
are alive, and what brings you here % ” 

He turned to Wilde. 

“ Go with the men to their horses. I will 
Boon rejoin you.” 

Wilde inclined his head, and went with the 
party in the direction indicated, only he took a 
path leading down the slope toward the interior 
not that by which they had come. 

“ How for much in a short space,” said the 
baronet, looking sidewise at the woman. 

It was an evil look, and his hand was on hia 
pistol as he spoke. 

“ Neither of us know how long we may live/ 
added the baronet, with a gastly grin; “ and be 


128 


HUNTED . 


fore we die it will be as well that we should 
Lave a short talk together, madam.” 

u I listen, Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke,” said 
Hie recluse, seating herself composedly. 

“Your manners remain as lofty as ever, ! 
perceive, madam.” 

“ It is natural, since I am Lady Westbrooke, 
sir.” 

" True, madam,” came with an ominous 
scowl from the baronet, who remained standing. 
“ I had lost sight of — or forgotten the fact that 
yon are my wife.” 




CHAPTER n. 

THE BARONET AND THE SOLITARY. 

solitary woman gazed at him with 
•feet coolDess and even with curiosity. 
‘ You no doubt regret the fact that 1 
Lady Westbrooke, sir,” she said ; “ but 
that is the truth, nevertheless. It affords me 
little gratification to claim the title, but I can- 
not discard it. We meet to-night for the first 
time for twenty years nearly ; and a bad errand 
brings you hither. Better that you had not 
come — ” 

“ And intruded myself upon your ladyship! 
Well, perhaps you are right ; but I have little 
time at present. Answer me : how and when 
and why did you come to live in this wild 
spot? ’ 

“ Many years since.” 

9 



( 1 ») 


130 


BARONET AND SOLITARY. 


“ Your object ? ” 

K To prevent you from committing a great 
eic,' T 

a Thanks, madam, for your pious guardian- 
ship; but may I beg to bo informed what sin 
you allude to ? ” 

u A second marriage during my life — the 
life of your lawful wife,” was the calm re- 
sponse. 

Sir Murdaugh "Westbrooke’s countenance as- 
sumed an expression utterly hideous at these 
words. 

“ Ah I that is the sin which you kindly pra 
pose to prevent me from committing, madam ? ” 
he growled. 

u It is.” 

“ You are a hypocrite 1 You came hither 
with some other object ! ” he half shouted. 

This sudden rage brought a defiant flush to 
the solitary’s pale face. 

“ You charge me with lying, then ? ” she said, 
coldly. 

u Tes : deception is your element.” 

u This to me, from you ! That is wonderful, 
sir, and well-nigh surpasses belief.” 

The words seemed to still further increase 
the rage of the baronet, and his glance grew 


BARONET AND SOLITARY, 


131 


terriole. More than once, a sudden clutch on 
the weapon in his grasp seemed to indicate a 
mad desire to remove then and there this obsta- 
cle from his path. 

But his fury had no effect upon the woman : 
she remained cold and composed. 

“Listen, Sir Murdaugh Westbrook e,” she 
said. “ You charge me with deceiving you, and 
coming hither with some covert and unworthy 
object. Do you think my past life — an un- 
happy life — supports that idea? What was 
that life, and what did you make it? I was 
a happy girl in the village of Martigny in Nor- 
mandy, as gay as the roses blooming under our 
bright French sun, when one day there came to 
my father’s house in the village, a young English- 
man. Chance brought on this visit, and my 
wretched beauty — they said I was beautiful — 
did the rest. My father, an officer of the navy, 
was absent, and my old aunt watched over me. 
You were that young Englishman, sir. You 
won over my aunt ; you became enamoured of 
me ; you would have made me your victim, if 
I had not been too ignorant even to understand 
your base hints ; and in the end, when you found 
that I was unassailable, you were mastered by 
your passion for me — you proposed for my 


132 


BARONET AND SOLITARY. 


hand, and my aunt forced me to marry /on. 
The ceremony took place: I became Lady 
Westbrooke.” 

The baronet grinned hideously. The yellow 
teeth protruded like the tusks of a wild boar. 

“You narrate with extreme clearness, mad- 
am, and recall the happy days of my life. Yes, 
I, an Englishman of rank, married the daugh- 
ter of a poor sea-captain. He was lost at sea, 
nearly at the moment I married you. Thus 
you were a mere pauper, having nothing beside 
his pay. Well, what next, madam ? ” 

The face of the solitary flushed hot. 

“ This it is to be a person of ‘ rank,’ sir ! You 
taunt a poor woman with her poverty — you 
hint that I was designing, sir. I loathed you 
at the very moment, when I placed my hand in 
yours; my aunt compelled me to marry you. 
French girls have no word in these arrange- 
ments. Yes, my poor father was dead — would 
he had appeared and forbidden the terrible 
sacrifice I was forced to make.” 

A sneer settled on the baronet’s face. 

“ Well, all this is interesting, madam,” ho 
said, “ but not very important. Oblige me by 
coming to the events which brought Lady 
Westbrooke to this crag )n the coast of Wales .’ 7 


BARONET AND SOLITARY. 


133 


“ 1 will gratify your curiosity, sir,” the recluse 
said, coldly, “and tell you everything without 
reservation. You had married me for my face 
merely, and six months afterwards were tired 
:f the face. You began to treat me badly — 
wearied of the quiet of the old house in Mar* 
tigny where we had lived since the day we were 
united. In the end you began to quarrel ; you 
treated me cruelly, and laughed in my aunt’s 
face, when she wished you to take me to your 
own house and acknowledge me publicly as 
Lady Westbrooke. That enraged my aunt ; but 
1 had a much greater ground for melancholy. 
You were a Protestant, I a Catholic. I had 
thus married a heretic, and the union, in my 
eyes, was sinful.” 

“ Which led you, my dear madam, to desert 
me — ” 

“ Just as you were on the point of deserting 
me. Yes, sir.” 

“Well, you are right, madam ; I acknowledge 
that my married life had grown cu ^sedly weari- 
. some. I was thinking of leaving you and your 
uoll face, and had even prepared to do so. It 
was a coincidence — two fond spouses mutually 
plotting in secret to desert each other.” 

The woman preserved % disdainful silence. 


134 


BARONET AND S0L11ARY. 


“ Think ! the affair was really comic ” adle<? 
the baronet, grinning. “Yon watching me, 
and I watching yon ; each afraid that the other 
would discover the secret ; each fearing detec- 
tion, pursuit, and a renewal of the hateful union 
while each in reality thirsted for the separation.’- 

“Have you finished, sir?” said the recluse, 
coldly. “ If so, I will continue.” 

“ I have finished, madam,” returned the bar- 
onet, with a bow of mock respect, “ and shall be 
glad to hear the rest of your ladyship’s interest- 
ing narrative.” 

“ It shall be communicated in few words, sir. 
You were cruel to me; treated me with con- 
tempt ; more than once were near striking me ; 
in addition to which you were a heretic, and I 
was perilling my soul’s salvation by listening in 
silence to your sneers at our holy church. 
Then I prayed for guidence from heaven, and 
something said to me, ‘Leave him: he will 
destroy you.’ I accordingly fled from Mar- 

tigny.” 

“And on the very day, that I went in the 
opposite direction, as I afterwards learned, 
madam!” 

A burst of sombre laughter accompanied 
ihese words of the baronet 


BARONET AND SOLITARY. 


133 


“It is well, sir,” was his companion’s reply , 
“then the sin I committed, if it he a sin, had 
that palliation at least. I left you, very mis- 
erable, but canying with me some consolation, — 
the child who had come to prove a solace to me 
in my wretchedness. I went to a distant rela- 
tive’s; the boy grew and loved me; he was 
placed in the marine, became a man, won his 
way to the command of a ship by his courage 
and high character ; then I came hither, fearing 
that you would be led to commit a great sin, — 
the sin of marrying a second time during the 
life of your lawful wife.” 

The baronet grinned. 

“Why not, your ladyship? Intent makes 
sin ; and I have not sinned in intent I Did I 
not believe that you and the boy were lost at 
sea? That was your device, was it not? You 
conveyed that intelligence to me ? ” 

“ I did, sir. It was a sin ; but committed to 
avoid a greater one, — that of remaining with 
you; and had you believed me and the boy 
alive, I feared you would pursue us, and force 
us back.” 

“And destroy your soul’s salvation, my pioia 

spouse.” 

“Yes; mine and the boy’s. I did evil that 


136 


BARONET AND SOLITARY. 


good might come of it. Ycu were a heretie 
and a vicious man; you blasphemed our holy 
church ; had you forced me to return, I should 
have been compelled to listen to that daily, 
and worse still, you would have corrupted and 
poisoned the heart of the child. So I originated 
and had conveyed to you that report of cur 
death. Years passed. I had lied to prevent a 
terrible impiety; but then came the thought, 
that my pious fraud would lead you to this sin. 
You thought me dead ; you might marry again ; 
it was my duty to prevent that. So I came 
hither and watched you, sir ; not from love, — 
I never loved you, — but from a sense of duty. 
You did not suspect my presence here, but I 
was near Westbrooke Hall and must have heard 
of your intended marriage. I have lived poorly ; 
have waited : but for accident you would not 
have discovered me.” 

The voice was silent. 

“Well, you have related an entertaining his- 
tory, madam. A misalliance, desertion the soli- 
tary life of a recluse on a storm-beaten crasr, 
where your only amusement, I am informed, io 
to build beacon fires, in the intervals of watch- 
ing over the morals of your dear spouse, — what 
could be more romantic, more touching, and 


BARONET AND SOLITARY. 


137 


ilke the story-books! And may I ask your 
future intentions, madam ? ” 

“ To remain where 1 am and live as I have 
lived, sir.” 

♦ “Ah!” 

And the baronet’s face grew dark. 

“Suppose, in spite of all, I should contract 
marriage with some second fair one ? ” 

“You dare not!” 

“ Ah ! I warn you I am a tolerably daring 
person, madam ! ” 

“ You will not marry, because ytfu would 
thereby commit the legal offence of bigamy. 
The law of God might not restrain you — the 
law of man would punish you.” 

“ You round your sentences charmingly, 
madam ; but I beg to remind your ladyship of 
one fact, — that you are supposed to be dead, 
and even are such on your own authority. 
Why, then, should I not marry? Widowers, 
however sad, marry.” 

“ You will not marry, for a good reason, 
sir.” 

“ What is that, madam, will you please in- 
form me ? ” 

“ Because the marriage of Marianne Earlo 
and Sir Murdaugh Westbrnoke, baronet, :? re« 


133 


BARONET AND SOLITARY. 


corded in the parish register at Marfcigny, n 
Normandy ! ” 

The baronet started, and turned pale. 

“Fool that I was to forget that!” he 
muttered ; u it is incredible how men will 
blunder ! * 

Then liking at his companion sidewise, and 
with a wary glance, — 

“ What you say is very true, madam, and 1 
have not the remotest intention of becoming 
a bigamist,” he said. 

A keen glance accompanied the last words. 
The recluse seemed neither to believe or dis- 
believe them. 

“ And now to end our interesting conversation, 
madam. You propose to remain here until I 
marry ? ” 

“ Or I die.” 

“ That would be sad ; and as a Catholic you 
would doubtless confess yourself to a priest ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Revealing your true name ? > 

“ My name and whole life.” 

“ So that if I should unfortunately be married, 
my marriage would be shown to be illegal ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ It is well,” he said, with the spirit of mur 


BARONET AND SOLITARY. 


139 


der in his low voice ; “ and now for a !ast point. 
Where is that boy ? ” 

The recluse looked intently at him. 

“Be at rest — you mean him mischief, un- 
natural father ! but he is beyond your reach .’ 1 
“ Where ? ” 

“ I will not reply ! ” 

“ Beware how you defy me ! ” he said, ad- 
vancing a step toward her. 

“ I fear you not I ” 

“ Answer ! ” 

“ I will not ! ” 

He seized her wrists furiously. 
c Reply ! or — ! ” 

“ Kill me, if you please ! ” said the woman, 
coldly, and exhibiting no signs of pain. “ Do 
you think I value my life? I despise your 
threats and violence, and will tell you nothing, 
though you murder me ! ” 

She wrenched her hands from him. 

“Go!” she said, rising to her full height; 
“the boy has never wronged you. It is I, if 
any one, who should suffer.” 

“ And I swear you shall ! ” howled the bar- 
onet ; “ at present I have that to attend to. I 
will not give up the search yet. I go now, 
out beware of me when I return ! ” 


140 


BARONET AND SOLITARY. 


With these words he hastened from che hat 
and rapidly descended the path taken by Wilde 
and the men. 

In ten minutes, such was his haste, he reached 
the clump of trees in which they waited beside 
their horses. 

“ Mount ! ” he ordered. 

The men threw themselves into the saddle. 

The baronet and Wilde rode in front, at full 
gallop. 

“ He is at Maverick House ! ” said the former, 
hoarsely ; “ and to-night may end that matter, 
Wilde. But I have other work fo r you! Be 
ready to set out for France at daylight.” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“You were at Martigny with me — you re- 
member ? ” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Well, listen now to my instructions, and see 
that you obey them to the letter. If you suc- 
ceed — a thousand pounds sterling ! If you fail, 
i find sorr.e other master. How listen ! ” 

And in rapid words he gave the man his in- 
structions as they went on at full gallop. 

As the baronet ended, Maverick House glim 
mered before them in the moonl’ght a quarter 
of a mile distant. 


BARONET AND SOLITARY. 


141 


u The time is near! ” he said ; “ nc faltering^ 
Wilde 1 this man must die ! ” 

And turning to the men, — 

“ The desperado we are in search of is here ! ” 
he said, “ and ready to resist. At the signal 
from me, fire on him ! Shoot him down — a 
hundred guineas to the man who kills him ! ” 




CHAPTER ITL 

WHAT ONE WOMAN IS CAPABLE OF TOWARD 
ANOTHER. 

N hour or two before, Ellinor and Rose 
Maverick had issued forth, and strolled 
over the russet lawn, to enjoy the mild and 
caressing airs of the autumn evening. 

It was what is called “ St. Martin’s Summer.” 
The breeze was soft, and fanned their foreheads 
like the zephyrs of spring. The cutting blasts 
had not whirled the brown leaves from the 
trees. The year was going to his death in his 
trappings of golden sunsets ; mists curled 
around the headlands ; the moonlight, mixing 
with the orange tint in the west, s'ept serenely 
on the charming landscape. 

The two girls had wandered some distance in 
the shrubbery. 



( 142 ) 


TWO WOMEN. 


143 


Tlie superb beauty of Ellinor was un clanged. 
Her dark eyes sparkled with satirical wit, hei 
lips curled with irony, and the magnetic glances 
kept for the male sex had given way to an ex 
pression best described as “ spiteful.” 

Rose was much altered. The delicate cama 
tion of her cheeks had disappeared. She walk- 
ed over the russet turf with slow and languid 
steps. It was the pale flower of autumn beside 
the dazzling rose of summer, and the summer 
flower seemed to be amusing herself at the ex- 
pense of the autumn primrose. 

“ What a very romantic affair ! Who would 
ever have believed it ? ” said Ellinor, satirically. 
“ The elegant and high-born Miss Rose Maver- 
ick in a love-sick condition about an unknown 
adventurer ! ” 

Rose turned her head impatiently, and a 
slight color came to her pale cheeks. 

“ I have already told you, Ellinor, that it was 
unpleasant to me to be spoken to in that man- 
ner,” she said. 

“ I don’t believe it 1 ” was the reply It is not 
unpleasant, my quiet little cousin l You are 
proud of your romance. Come, confess! are 
you ashamed of your — well, of your friend- 
8/typ for the handsome Mr. Delamerc \ ” 


144 


TWO WOMAN. 


“ I am net,” said Hose, firmly. “He 3aved 
my life, as tie did yours. "We owe him friend 
Bhip, at least — ” 

“And love? Ah! you wince, my pretty 
cousin. Your blushes betray you.” 

Rose Maverick drew herself up with some 
hauteur, but made no reply. 

“ Oh ! there is your fine air again, my Lady 
Disdain ! ” snarled the fair Ellinor. “ If you 
are not in love with him, why have you drooped 
hke a flower when the frost comes, ever since 
t^at night when he disappeared so mysteri- 
ously ? Before, your spirits were excellent, and 
I think the goody old people, if not the men, 
liked you much better than they liked me, pre- 
ferring your “ sweet smile, full of native good- 
ness,” one of them said, I remember, “ to my 
brilliant glances.” Well, where is the sweet 
smile ? Why do you sit for hours in sad mu- 
sings ? Why have you lost all interest in your 
flowers, and even forgot to feed your linnet 
yesterday ? I reply that you are in love — in 
love with the interesting unknown ! ” 

Rose had turned with an offended air to 
re-enter the house. 

Ellinor followed, goading and snapping at 
her. 


TWO WOMEN. 


1*5 


u Deny it, if you dare, my romantic cousin ! ” 
she said. 

Rose made no reply. Slie walked qfietly to- 
ward the house, her companion beside her, and 
laughing maliciously. 

“ Row you really ought to have taken pattern 
by my insignificant self,” went on her torment • 
or. “ The late interesting Mr. Delamere had 
the bad taste to prefer me to you. I am penni- 
less, only a poor girl, but lie honored me by his 
attentions ; in spite of which I remained quite 
heart-whole and not in the least romantic about 
lie handsome stranger. Oh, he said a number 
$f things to me ! Did I never tell you that be- 
fore ? He looked at me in such a way ! He 
told me at last — but here I am becoming in- 
discreet. H he did not kiss my shoes, and lay 
his neck down for me to place my foot upon, it 
was only because he saw that I was too jorojper 
a young lady to encourage a strange adven- 
turer ! There is the blush again, and this time 
it is an angry blush. Very well, but this is 
true. He would have knelt down quickly 
enough, if he had hoped I would raise him up 
in my arms ! And what he did do was some- 
thing ! He — ” 

“ I am weary of all this,” said Rose, stung to 
10 


146 


TWO WOMEN. 


the quick. “ I wonder you take sue a pains feo 
prove that you are heartless, Ellinor. I r ou are 
witty aud brilliant, you think. Other persons 
would call your wit ill-temper.” 

The words went home and aroused in the 
ironical Ellinor a good old-fashioned fit of pure 
anger. 

“ Ah, there you are, my fine cousin ! ” she 
cried. “ You treat me, as usual, to moral and 
scriptural abuse. Thank your ladyship ! But 
’tis enough for the present. I’ll go home now 
and hear the rest of the sermon on another oc- 
casion. Thank you ! — I am ‘ ill-tempered ’ ! 
Oh, yes ! And all because I refer to what 
everybody is speaking of ! I say what every- 
body is speaking of, madam! — your lovesick 
state of mind all about this unknown stranger, 
Mr. Delamere ! The very neighbors laugh at 
it ! You have no pride, they say. They won- 
der, as your family wonder, that you should 
thus honor a person of unknown position and 
olood, that ever since he disappeared in that 
mysterious, and, I must say, very suspicious 
manner, you shou 1 d have mourned him and 
cried about him, and loved the very chair he 
sat in I That is all I have to say, madam I * 111- 
tempered ’ ! ” 


TWO WOMEN. 


147 


And the fair Ellinor tossed her head in bu 
perb wrath. 

“ I’d like to know what I have said to expose 
myself to that insult!” she added. Ill- 
tempered’ ! and all because I laugh at your 
infatuation about an adventurer ! ” 

“Mr. Delamere was not an adventurer!” 
was Rose’s cold response. 

“ What, then, was he 1 this charming stranger, 
whose amateur fishing excursions terminated so 
mysteriously, and so very suspiciously.” 

“ I see no mystery and no ground for suspic- 
ion in his disappearance,” was Rose Maverick’s 
response. 66 You know as well as 1 do, Ellinor, 
that he has been missing since the night of the 
attack on Westbrooke Hall, when the Viscount 
Cecil was carried off. It is nearly certain now, 
as you know equally well, that this attack was 
made by a party of Frenchmen from a vessel, 
in the channel, and that their object was to ab- 
duct persons of rank to hold as hostages.” 

^ “ Pray what has that to do with it, if I may 

address a question without offence to your 
ladyship ? ” 

“Simply this. Mr. Delamere wis returning 
from his visit here to Oldport, on the night of 
the attack. On the next morning he had i\a- 


TWO WOMEN. 


appeared, and his horse was found grazing in the 
fields. Nothing further is known ; but it is cer- 
tainly reasonable to suppose that he too was car- 
ried off, — since his dress, demeanor, and all 
connected with him, you will not deny, indi- 
cated that he was a gentleman. As such he 
was worth attention. He was seen no more 
Is it so improbable that the French people cap- 
tured him ?” 

“ A fine theory, indeed ! ” 

“ It is at least more charitable than to con- 
clude that he was an adventurer and disappeared 
as he came, — “mysteriously.” 

“You defend your protegd well, madam* 

“ I take the part of the absent, who are de- 
famed.” 

“ And the absent thanks you ! ” said a voice 
in the shrubbery, very near them. 

The young ladies recoiled, and uttering ex- 
clamations, gazed with affright toward the 
shadow. 

A figure wrapped in a cloak advanced. The 
face was pale, thin, and worn, but resolute and 
stern. 

It was Earle, 



CHAPTER IV. 

THE SAILOR AND HIS SHIP 

SUDDEN and unexpected event was the 
occasion of Earle’s presence at Maverick 
House. 

He had remained prostrate on a couch 
of illness for weeks after the night of the attack 
on Westbrooke Hall — the recluse watching 
over him in the solitary hut with deep solici- 
tude and tenderness. 

At last the wound in his shoulder had healed 
He had left his sick bed. The fresh breeze 
of the ocean infused new life into his frame ; 
and seated for hours on the bench in front of 
the rude cabin on the great headland, he had 
looked through his glass out cn the channel and 
along the coast. 

Where was the corvette? he asked himself, 

( 140 ) 



150 


THE SAILOR AND HIS SHIP. 


Wliat had become of his beloved craft ? The 
sailor loves his ship, and the fate of the corvette 
was ever on Earle’s mind. Had she arrived 
Bafely with her prize, the viscount, or h&d she 
been chased and captured by some English 
frigate? Was she riding in pride, or sunk 
fathoms deep beneath the waves of St. George’s 
Channel ? 

He had been seated in his customary seat on 
that morning, gazing through his glass and 
asking himself these questions, when all at once 
the recluse saw him rise to his feet, and heard 
him utter an exclamation, almost a cry, of joy. 

The corvette was visible in the offing ! There 
was no mistaking the object of his pride and 
affection! The eye of the sailor knows his 
craft, as the eye of the lover knows his mistress. 
There was the corvette slowly beating up 
toward the coast of Pembrokeshire ; and as his 
mother hastened to his side, Earle pointed the 
vessel out and exclaimed, — 

“ There she is, mother !” 

“ Your ship, my son ? ” said the poor recluse, 
not sharing his joy. 

“Yes, yes, mother! My own corvette! — 
coming to rescue her commander.” 

44 Then you will leave mo ? ” 


THE SAILOR AND HIS SHIP, 


151 


lie turned toward her, and looked at kei with 
great tenderness. 

“ See how strong the sailor spirit is in mo 
I had not thought of that,” he said. 

“ While I think first of it. You go, and 1 
shall be alone agai a.” 

Her voice was full of melancholy, and the 
sailer’s joy was dimmed. 

“ Come with me, my mother. Leave this 
wild and lonely spot. Your native Normandy 
is brighter than this land; cornel Nothing 
there shall ever part us.” 

“ You say Normandy : how do you know 
that Normandy is my birthplace?” said the 
recluse, suddenly. 

“ From your missal, mother, — the little book 
you pray from. I found it on the table near 
my sick couch, and opened it. On the first 
leaf is written , 6 Marianne Earle, Martigny, Nor- 
mandy.’” 

The recluse was silent. 

“ Until now I had thought you a native of the 
South, mother, where we always lived ; but you 
■never told me any thing. There will be time, 
to discuss all this, however. Now time is want- 
ing. See ! look through my glass. There is a 
man ; it is Dargmne, on the deck of the cor- 


152 


THE SAILOR AND HIS SHIP. 


vette. He lias his glass, and is looking for me. 
He waves his handkerchief, and I reply.” 

Earle waved his own handkerchief. 

“ You see, mother 1 Get ready to come with 
me.” 

“ I cannot.” 

“ Why not ? ” 

“ I must remain here. Do not ask me why, 
my son.” 

“ And we shall part ! ” 

“ It breaks my heart, but I must remain, Ed- 
mond. Ask me not why.” 

“Enough, my mother; I will say no more. 
Women like yourself never yield. I must go ; 
but I will return. My duty calls me now, but 
we shall still love each other. See ! J he signal 
flags are run up. I read them as I re. d print.” 

“What do they say?” 

Earle looked through his glass, and repeated 
slowly as the fluttering signal flags sy II hied the 
message, — 

“ Be at — the old place — to-night.” 

“ The recluse sank upon the bench. 

“ Then it is ended — all my happines* at see 
ing you near me, my child,” she murmunH. 

And looking at him, she said to herself in a 
low voice, — 


THE SAILOR AND HIS SHIP. 155 

“ He does not liear me ; he is looking at his 
vessel, waving his handkerchief. That means 
that lie will be punctual. Oh ! why do we love 
in this world? Why do we become wrapped 
up in human beings until we are unhappy with- 
out them ? Then they go — we are alone — our 
very love works our woe. Alas! my child is 
going to leave me, and I will be alone.” 

Earle turned toward her, joyously. 

“See! she understands my signal, mother. 
She has tacked about, content — is making for 
the coast of Ireland — but she will he here 
without fail, again, to-night ! ” 




CHAPTER Y. 

earle’s design. 

S evening approached, Earle dressed Jiim- 
self in his full uniform of a captain in 
the French navy, buckled on his belt and 
pistols, and, wrapping his cloak around 
him, turned to the recluse. 

“I am going to be absent for an hour, my 
mother,” he said. “A last duty makes this 
necessary. Be not afraid : l will soon return, 
and then I will renew my persuasions to induce 
you to embark with me for France. Reflect that 
il will make me very happy, mother; and the 
good God watch over you.” 

He left the hut. The recluse had made no 
response. Bending down and weeping silently, 
she presented an appearance of the deepest do* 
jection. 



( 154 ' 


EARLE'S DESIGN. 


155 


Earle threw a last tender glance toward her 
and disappeared in the dusk of evening. 

lie followed the path leading down the head 
land, in the direction of Maverick House; and 
just as Sir Murdaugh Wcstbrooke, with his 
party, left W estbrooke Hall in pursuit of him, 
entered the Maverick woods, half a league from 
the mansion. 

As he went on with firm tread, and an ex- 
pression of stern resolution upon his features, he 
muttered to himself, — 

“ Yes : this is a duty, and I will not leave the 
country without performing it. Chance has 
placed me in possession of a secret intimately 
•oncoming Arthur Maverick, the man who has 
ca ^ed me friend, and his household ; a mur- 
derer is about to enter that household as the 
husband of one of the family whose head he 
has assassinated. I alone, besides the gypsy, 
who has disappeared, can warn the victim. 1 
swear I will do so, and from a sense of duty, 
not in the least from a mean jealousy; and then, 
if the marriage takes place, let it take place.” 

He went on rapidly. Pale and thin as ho 
was, it was evident that his physical vigor was 
nearly unabated. 

“Jealousy!” he muttered as he proceeded 


156 


EARLE'S DESIGN \ 


beneath the huge boughs, toward Maverick 
House, — “ jealousy ! oh, no ! I swear that I am 
not in the least jealous. The love I had for 
that woman is dead. She made me crazy for a 
time; but I have become sane. I can see now — 
thanks to the hours of meditation and recollec- 
on my sick couch — that she is false, acted a 
part with me, lured me on to gratify a poor 
sentiment of vanity; and when she had en- 
trapped me, and driven me to an avowal, threw 
me away without a thought or care for me. 

“Fool that I was to imagine that the poor 
stranger could compete with the rich baronet in 
madam’s eyes. Fool, above all, to give my love 
to a thing of deception, false as the sea. As 
the sea? I do it wrong. It is changeable 
and dangerous, but makes no protestations. 
You embark on it with a knowledge of its 
perils. This woman’s glance and smile said, 
* There is no danger with me.’ They fooled me. 
I was her slave. I am free now ; and I am not 
4 jealous. Were she to hold ''lit her hand now, I 
would not take it, for I know her. Fool ! to pass 
by that pure flower, Arthur Maverick’s sister, 
and bestow my love upon this quicksand, Arthur 
Maverick’s cousin. But it is over — all that 
madness. I care not if she marry the assassin 


EARLE'S DESIGN. 


15T 


and monster. It is to save Arthur Maverick, 
my friend, that I go to warn him, and to speak 
in my own name and character. There is the 
house, here is the wall : in ten minutes I shall 
be there.” 

As he spoke, rapid steps were heard on the 
path behind him, and he turned round. 

Through the dim light a man was seen run- 
ning towards him, and he drew his pistol. 

“ Don’t shoot, brother. I am a friend ! ” 
6aid the pursuer. 

And the gypsy reached him. 

“ Take care, brother ! ” he said ; “ Sir Mtu> 
daugh Westbrooke is on your track ! ” 




CHAPTER VT 

THE WITNESS. 

ARLE gazed at the gypsy without exhibit- 
ing the least emotion at these words. 

“ How do you know that ? ” he said. 
“ But first tell me where you have been ? * 
“ I have been yonder in the woods, in the 
great ravine beyond Maverick House. On the 
night of the attack on Westbrooke Hall, I went 
with you as far as the ledge on the sea shore 
There my heart failed me. I heard the shouts 
of the revenue guard. I was a coward, and 
glided into the darkness.” 

“ You did well. I have been wounded ; but 
that is no matter. You say I am pursued ? ” 
u Yes, brother. I was at the revenue station 
to-day, offering to tell fortunes. As I was tell- 
ing that of the young officer in command, the 

( 158 ) 



THE WITNESS. 


159 


man Wilde rode up hastily. He brought a 
note. The officer read it half aloud, and I 
heard it. It was from Sir Murdaugh West- 
brooke, and asked for a party of men to arrest 
you. You were lurking at a place on the c$ast 
near the village of Oldport.” 

“Ah ! he has found out that? And the men 
were sent ? ” 

“ Yes, brother. They were ordered out im- 
mediately. Then I left in a hurry, and began 
to run toward Oldport. As I went, I thought 
of the hut on the headland, where the solitary 
woman lives. You might be there, and I went 
up the steep cliff by a path I found. You were 
gone ; the woman said, had followed the path 
toward Maverick House. I ran after you, and 
here I am. The baronet is probably on youi 
track too.” 

Earle nodded coolly. 

“ It is well,” he said. 

He looked keenly at the gypsy, as though to 
read him through. The look seemed to be un- 
derstood by the vagabond. His face flushed, 
and he said, — 

“ You don’t doubt me, brother? ” 

“Ho,” said Earle, extending his hand; “bitf 
this deep interest you show in a stranger — ” 


160 


THE WITNESS. 


“ You are no stranger, brother. You are one 
of the Eommanye Eye. But there is more to 
make me your friend. You have been kind to 
me. You have not despised me. All the world 
despises the gypsies. They are vagabonds and 
thieves! At their appearance, the housewife 
takes in her linen from the hedge. When they 
camp in the woods near a homestead, the farmer 
looks to his sheep and pigs. They are outcasts ; 
all curse them ! I am one of them, and you 
have been kind, not cruel. You are a gentle- 
man, and have touched my hand and called the 
poor gypsy 6 brother.’ That has moved him ; 
he is your friend. 1 swear to watch over and 
obey you, brother ! ” 

Earle saw that the speaker was in earnest, and 
suddenly the thought came, “ Here is the wit- 
ness to the murder.” 

“You will do what I ask of you, then, 
brother ? ” he said. 

“ I swear it ; order me. I am yours ! ” 

“ Then follow me. I am going to reveal 
the murderer of Giles Maverick to his son 
Arthur. Eemain concealed in the shadow 
of the trees near the house. When I call you, 
come quickly. See, we are near now. Here is 
the wail ! ” 


THE WITNESS . 


161 


They leaped into the park, and rap idly ap- 
£ roached the h )use. 

“Remain here!” said Earle, pointing to a 
spot in the shrubbery ; “ and when you hear mo 
blow on my sailor’s whistle, come quickly, and 
give your testimony.” 

The gypsy made a sign of obedience. 

“ I will lose no time, brother ; and I advise 
you to hasten. The baronet will not find yon 
on the coast, and will come straight here. T 
warn you.” 

“ Let him come ! ” 

And Earle rapidly made his way toward the 
mansion. 

Suddenly he heard the sound of voices, and 
Rose and Ellinor passed in the moonlight. He 
clearly distinguished what was said; heard the 
taunts of Ellinor, the charge of loving him, 
which she brought against her cousin; and 
heard, too, the defence made of him by Rose. 

A moment afterward he stood before them. 


n 



CHAPTER VII. 


THE DENUNCIATION. 




low to Rose, said, in liis deep voice, — 
(S “ Once more I thank yon, madam. 
You defend me. The attack is strange 1 ” 
lie turned to Ellinor. 

“ I loved you once, or thought I did,” he 
said, coolly. “I love you no longer — have 
ceased for more than a month to care aught for 
you. I shall see you no more — before I go I 
undeceive you on that point, if you have 
deceived yourself.” 

Ellinor Maverick blushed crimson at the stern 
and almost contemptuous words oi the sailor. 
Her pride was cruelly mortified, and angel 
foil.' wed — her eyes darted lightnings. 


( 162 ) 


THE DENUNCIATION. 


163 


Before she could speak, however, Earle had 
turned lia back upon her. He went to meet 
Arthur Maverick, who, startled by the exclama- 
tions of the ladies at Earle’s appearance, 
had buried out to ascertain the cause of 
their agitation. 

“In good time!” said Earle; “it is yon 
whom I come to see.” 

“ Mr. Delamere ? Is it possible that you are 
alive, and not a prisoner either ? We thought 
you had been captured.” 

“ I will explain all, some day,” was Earle’s 
reply ; “ now there is no time. I came not to 
explain this disapearance, but a much more 
mysterious affair. My explanation must be 
brief, the meaning of which statement you 
willl soon discover, friend.” 

“Your words astound me ! ” 

“ I am about to astound you far more. The 
object of my hurried visit to-night is to reveal 
to you what I should have revealed long since.” 

“To reveal — what?” 

“ The murderer of your father ! ” 

Arthur Maverick started, and alrnort recoiled. 

“You know the mysteiy of that terrible 
affair?” 

“Yes!” 


THE DENUNCIATION. 


it’4 

“Good heavens, Mr. Delamerei Speak! 
What frightful intelligence have you to com- 
municate ? ” 

“Intelligence truly frightful! for it reveals a 
depravity almost incredible. Tell me, friend, — 
you are that to me, — what think you of love and 
murder mingled ? What would you say if I told 
you that your father’s murderer aspires to an al- 
liance with one of your own family ! What if 
the man whose hands reek with the blood of the 
uncle, comes to ask the hand of the niece, hopes 
to make Miss Ellinor Maverick his wife?” 

Arthur gazed at the speaker with distended 
eyes. 

Ellinor Maverick, as pale as death, now, 
seemed about to faint. 

“You would say — you surely do not 
mean — ?” Arthur said in a low and agitated 
voice. 

“I mean that Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke, of 
Westbrooke Hall, is the murderer of Giles Mav- 
erick, your father ! ” 

For a moment a deep silence reigned through 
out the entire group. The words seemed to 
paralyze the listeners, and to deprive them of 
the power of utterance. 

The first person who spoke was Ellino* Mav~ 


THE DENUNCIATION. 


165 


eriek. She sprang forward with the fx ry of a 
tigress. 

“Who are you, sir?” she cried, white with 
rage, “who bring this accusation? who are you 
— the unknown adventurer who dare to assault 
the character of a gentleman of rank ? Speak ! 
I will defend Sir Murdaugh, if my cousin is too 
cowardly to do so!” 

Earle bowed with ironical ceremony. 

“ I compliment you, madam, upon your chiv- 
alric defence of the absent. It seems, then, that 
you can defend as well as attack those who are 
not present to take their own parts ! ” 

“ Answer ! no evasion ! No trick to avoid a 
reply to my question!” exclaimed the young 
lady, stung to wild fury. 

“Your question, madam?” 

“Who are you , I demand, who sneak hereto 
destroy a gentlemans character ? ” 

Earle threw back his cloak, and revealed his 
full uniform of a French captain. 

1 “I am Edmond Earle, of the French navy; 
an enemy, but an officer and a gentleman ! I 
came to avow that; you hasten the avowal. 
Yes,” he said, turning to the astonished Arthur, 
u I am not Mr. Delamere, but Captain Earle. I 


166 


THE DENUNCIATION. 


have assumed a part — it was repugnant* but 
? t was done in compliance with orders. French 
civilians were seized on the French coast — 1 
came to seize English civilians on the English 
coast ! It was I who attacked Westbrooke Hall 
and, carried off the Viscount Cecil, — it was I who 
was pursued and wounded on the sea-shore. I 
have remained here since that time ; my ship 
has returned for me, and the boat is now wait- 
ing; but I have come here, risking my life, 
you see, with a mounted party on my track, 
to say, £ Thanks for your hospitality friends ! 
I never betrayed that. Before I go, I per- 
form a duty ; act as your best friend would 
act — reveal the fact that a murderer, the 
murderer of your own father, is about to enter 
your family as the husband of a member of that 
family. 5 55 

Arthur Maverick looked and listened with 
stupefaction. Words seemed to fail him. 

“ The avowal of my real character is danger- 
ous, perhaps, 55 said Earle ; “ but I swore I would 
make it. I am a French officer, and politically 
your enemy; but personally, my heart beats 
with earnest affection for you. Do not remem- 
ber that I am an enemy — think me you? 


THE DENUNCIATION, 


167 


friend. There is little time left. Let me 
hasten and prove my charges.” 

He made the signal agreed upon, and the 
gypsy appeared quickly. 

“ This man is a vagabond, and you may not 
credit him,” said Earle; “but listen to his story 
first, and form your opinion.” 

At a sign from Earle the gypsy rapidly 
narrated the scene at the pool in the forest, 
more than five years before. As he painted in 
vivid colors the sombre event which he had 
witnessed, — the meeting of the enemies, the 
apparently friendly greeting, the sudden stab, 
the dog leaping at the murderer’s throat, and 
the murdered man beaten with fragments 
of rock, and his body dragged to and sunken in 
the pool, — as this terrible scene was depicted in 
the forcible words of the gypsy, Arthur Mave- 
rick shuddered, and his face assumed the ashy 
hue of a corpse. 

“You do not believe that, perhaps,” said Earle, 
as the gypsy terminated his narrative. “ You 
may say that I am the rejected suitor cf Miss * 
Maverick, and have suborned this man to perj ure 
himself, in order to ruin my rival. So be it ! 
form that theory, and try this narrative by the 


168 


THE DENUNCi 4T/0H. 


strongest test. Believe nothing until it is a© 
counted for upon reasonable grounds ; and first, 
was there no reason why Sir Murdaugh West- 
brooke should hate your father ? ” 

“ I know of none,” said Arthur Maverick in 
a 6tified voice. 

“/am better informed ! ” 

“You?” 

“ Your father bound and lashed the baronet 
as men lash a dog! Were you too young to 
know that fact ? Interrogate your memory.” 

“ Good heavens ! And it was my father, then, 
who committed that terrible outrage, with which 
the whole country rang ! Is it possible ? and 
yet, it is incredible, but — ” 

“ Had they not quarreled ? ” 

“ Yes, yes ! I now recall old stories of a vio- 
lent scene between them. They were on a race- 
course ; had an altercation ; my father gave Sir 
Murdaugh the lie, and the baronet struck him 
with his riding-whip. Before he could repeat 
the blow, the bystanders interposed and forced 
Sir Murdaugh from the ground t ” 

“ That is enough,” said Earle, coolly ; “ and the 
rhain of motive is perfect. Your father quar- 
rels with the baronet, the baronet inflicts a terri- 


THE DENUNCIATION 


169 


Me indignity upon Mr. Maverick ; tlie ’esult iff 
that your father returns the insult in kind bj 
bindiug and lashing his adversary; and the 
fifth act of the drama is the murder of yotu 
> father by that adversary.” 




CHAPTER VII. 

THE BLOOD-HOUND. 

RTHUR Maverick’s eyes were fixed 
upon the ground. His expression of 
horror and astonishment began to give 
place to a gloomy rage. 

“ Then, if this be true, I have welcomed and 
touched the hand of my father’s murderer !” 
he muttered. 

Before Earle could reply, Ellinor Maverick 
Hounded toward them. 

White with fury, chiefly from the undisguised 
contempt of her former lover, she caught 
Arthur by the arm, almost shook him in her 
rage, and half hissed through her closed set 
teeth, — 

“ Do yon believe that spy and liar ? ” 

( 170 ) 



THE BLOOD-HOUND . 


171 


Arthur Maverick drew back and extricated 
his arm from her grasp. 

u Permit me to manage my own affairs 
madam, and believe or disbelieve as seems good 
to me,” he said, coldly. 

“ Believe as you will, then ! ” was the furious 
response ; “ disgrace your name if you will, by 
giving credit to this convicted spy and adven- 
turer I But you shall not poison my mind 
against — ” 

“ Your uncle’s murderer, madam? As you 
will — that is your affair. I arrogate no au- 
thority over you. But listen to me. I am the 
head of the house of Maverick in Pembrokshire ; 
my father was murdered ; a man is charged with 
the murder. I will pursue the inquiry to the 
last limits. If true, the guilty shall suffer. If 
untrue, the innocent will be vindicated. Does 
that suit your views, madam ? If not, the fact 
will not move me.” 

Ellinor was carried away by her rage. 

“ I say the very idea is an insult ! ” 

66 So be it, madam. People will be insulted, 
then.” 

u It is an outrage — a thing unheard of, that 
this unknown adventurer, this man who dared 
to pay his addresses to me, whom I spumed 


172 


THE BLOOD-HOUND . 


and laughed at, and ordered to leave my pres- 
ence, — it is infamous that on hia testimony a 
gentleman of rank and character should be 
suspected ! ” 

“ She fights hard for her rich suitor ! ” mut- 
tered Earle, with stern irony. 

And then raising his voice, — 

“May I call your attention to one fact, 
madam ? ” he said, coldly : “ I have no testimony 
to give.” 

“ You have paid this vulgar wretch to blacken 
Sir Murdaugh I ” 

“ I am too poor, madam ! ” 

He made her a mock inclination, and spoke 
with an accent of such contempt that the lady 
shuddered with rage, and with difficulty re 
framed from springing at him. 

“ To end this scene,” said Earle, returning 
to his gloomy tone, full of sternness and cold 
resolution: “I expected this reception — I 
was thus prepared for it, and it does not 
? move me. I had my duty to perform, and 
have performed it, — at some risk, too,” he said 
to Arthur Maverick. “Do you doubt that! 
Listen ! ” 

He raised his finger, and there was dead 
silence for a monent 


THE BLOOD HOUND. 


173 


In the midst of this silence rapid hcof-strckei 
were heard on the road leading to the great 
gate. 

“ Do you hear ? ” said Earle, coolly. 

“ Yes ! ” was Arthur Maverick’s reply — “ the 
meaning of that sound ? ” 

“ Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke is coming hither 
With a party to seize and murder me.” 

“ The baronet ? ” 

“ In person ! Can you not fancy the 
worthy’s motive? On the night when this 
black mystery was revealed to me, he had me 
tracked — his secret emissary overhead all. Sir 
Maudaugh knows that I know — his good name 
is threatened. I may send him to the gallows 
— he has doomed me — and is coming to mur- 
der me ! ” 

The hoof-strokes sounded nearer, and a shud- 
der ran through Rose Maverick, who was stand- 
ing pale but erect beside her brother. 

“ My sentence is already pronounced ; I am 
to die,” said Earle, coolly ; “ and I lose my life 
by coming hither to warn you of this mar’s 
character! Does that prove, or does it not, 
that I believe this gypsy’s statement? He 
alone can speak of that scene — ” 

Earle suddenly stopped. 


174 


THE BLOOD-HOUND. 


The hoof -strokes clashed on the avenue. The 
pursuers were nearly upon them. 

“Yes, yes!” said Earle: “there is another wit- 
ness — and he is here ! the blood-hound ! — yon 
informed me that he was still alive, old and 
blind nearly. Send for the dog! — he will 
know the murderer ! ” 

“ I will go for him in person ! wait ! ” 

And Arthur Maverick disappeared at a 
bound toward the rear of the mansion, where 
the bloodhound — dangerous in spite of his 
great age — was kept chained. 

As his figure disappeared, Sir Murdaugh 
Westbrooke rushed toward the group. Behind 
came his men, ready to obey his orders. 

“ There he is ! ” shouted the baronet, “ armed 
and ready to resist ! ” 

Earle’s pistol was indeed in his hand, and 
unconsciously he raised it. 

“ He is ready to fire ! Shoot him down ! ” 
cried the baronet furiously. 

And he raised his own pistol, but suddenly 
let it fall. 

Bose Maverick had rushed between Earle and 
the threatening muzzle. 

“ You dare not fire upon me! she exclaimed 
disdainfully ; “ if you dare — fire ! ” 


THE 3 LO OD-HO UND. 


175 


And beautiful, superb, her cheeks burning 
with passionate feeling, — 

“ I know now that you murdered my father ! ,f 
she exclaimed. 

Tne words were nearly drowned in a hoarse 
and threatening roar; and an instant after- 
wards an enormous blood-hound bounded down 
the steps. 

At sight of the dog, Sir Murdaugh West- 
brooke uttered a hoarse cry and turned to fly. 

It was too late. The dog had recognized 
the murderer of his master. His bloodshot 
eyes glared at the baronet for an instant ; his 
huge mouth opened wide, displaying the jagged 
teeth — then with one bound the blood-hound 
reached the spot and sprung at his enemy’s 
throat. 

A second cry, hoarse and horror-stricken like 
the first, came from the baronet. But this time 
it was suddenly interrupted. The hound’s teeth 
were on his throat. A supernatural strength 
seemed to animate the faithful animal — the 
baronet struggled in vain — suddenly man and 
dog fell beneath the trampling hoofs of the 
horses, and Earle’s voice was heard exclaim- 
ing,— 

u Behold the murderer of Giles Maverick 1 ” 


176 


THE BLOOD-HOUND. 


As ho uttered the words the far bcom of can 
non came from the channel. 

Earle started. 

It came a second time. The omniouB sound 
was unmistakable. 

“The corvette! — she is attacked!” cried 
Earle. 

And seizing the bridle of the baronet’s horse, 
ho leaped into the saddle. 

“ Farewell, friends ! ” he cried to Arthur and 
Rose : “ there are my cannon ! — I know their 
ring ! My corvette is fighting am: I am absent ! 
Farewell ! ” 

And charging, pistol in hand, the confused 
revenue guard, he passed through them, fol 
lowed only by a few random shcts, and the* 
disappeared toward the coast 




CHAPTER IX. 

WHAT FOLLOWED. 

ARLE went on at full speed. 

The boat, he knew, awaited him at tlio 
cove under the headland: to reach the 
spot now without delay was the one 
thought that possessed him. 

The animal he bestrode was a powerful 
hunter, of the purest blood and the highest 
speed. At every bound he cleared ten feet. 
Earle drove him on mercilessly. With erect 
head, floating mane, and foam flying from his 
jaws, he darted straight on toward the coast, 
along whose headlands and rocky promontories 
reverberated the hoarse boom of the cannon. 

Suddenly another sound mingled with the far 
ominous roar, — the 6miting of hoofs on th« 
road behind. 

12 



( 177 ) 


178 


WHAT FOLLOWED . 


Earle turned his head and listened. 

‘ They are following me,” he muttered, fig- 
ging the spur into his horse’s sides. 

He was not mistaken. Sir Murdaugh "West* 
brooke was on his track. 

A brief but fiery scene had followed the fall 
of the baronet, in the clutch of the blood-hound. 
His men ran to him, dragged off the dog, and 
he rose to his feet, trembling, bleeding, and as 
pale as a corpse. 

“ The meaning — of — this — outrage ? ” he 
gasped. 

“ Ask your memory,” was Arthur Maverick’s 
response, in a low, hoarse tone. 

He advanced close to the baronet as he spoke, 
and fixed his eyes upon him. 

“ You are the murderer of my father ! ” came 
in a low hiss through his pale lips. 

The baronet recoiled, and his eyes seemed 
starting from their cavernous sockets. 

“ That hound convicts you ! See ! I have 
only to step aside and he will tear you to the 
earth a second time I Wretch! murderer! con- 
victed assassin ! your black crime shall not go 
unpunished longer!” 

And catching the baronet by the throat, he 
would have strangled him despite his greafc 


WHA T fOL LOWED . 


179 


strength, had not the men forcibly interposed, 
and parted them instantly. 

“ It — is — well ! ” gasped the baronet, stag- 
gering back ; “ you shall answer for this outrage. 
1 go now, but I return. My horse ! ” 

And turning, he caught almost mechanically, 
the bridle of a horse which one of the men 
hastened to lead forward. 

The baronet mounted hastily, and made a 
sign to his men to do likewise. 

Arthur Maverick seemed to hesitate whether 
he would attempt to retain him or not. 

“ Well, go ! ” he said ; “ but beware how you 
set your foot here again. Return, as you say 
you will, and you die by my hand.” 

The baronet looked at the speaker with eyes 
full of indescribable rage, with which was 
mingled no little trepidation. 

“It is well!” he said, in a low tone; “but let 
the son beware of the fate of the father.” 

As he spoke he turned his horse’s head, and 
* struck the spur into the animal’s sides. 

“ Come ! ” he shouted in hoarse tones to the 
mer ; “ we may catch up with the spy yet. A 
hundred guineas for his head! ” 

And he set out at full speed on the track of 


180 


WHAT FOLLOWER . 


Earle. The men followed, and the party disap- 
peared like a whilwind. 

The dismounted man, whose horse the bar 
onet rode, ran after them. 

The gypsy had already disappeared. 




CHAPTER X. 

THE FLAG WITH THE LILIES. 

ABLE continued his flight, 
straight for the coast. 

The hunter cleared the earth with long 
strides, and promised very soon to dis- 
tance all pursuit and reach the strand. 

Suddenly he staggered. A sharp stone had 
entered his foot, and inflicted a deep wound. 
Such was the pain that he was unable to keep 
up his great speed ; his pace fell off ; he limped 
terribly; and Earle heard behind him the 
shouts of the pursuers, who every moment were 
gaining upon him. 

He turned and looked o\er his shoulder; 
then through the night mist toward the coast. 
From the rear came threatening cries ; from the 

( 181 ) 



182 THE FLAG WITH THE LILIES. 


front, the long reverberating boom of cannon 
from the channel. 

Behind that curtain of white mist wrapping 
the shores and the great headlands, Earle felt 
that a hard combat was going on between hia 
corvette and an English frigate probably. 

The thought drove him to frenzy almost. 
He struck the poor animal he rode, with Ilia 
clenched fist. 

“Faster! faster!” he exclaimed. “I care 
not for myself. But she is attacked yonder — 
my corvette ! They are fighting, and I am not 
there ! ” 

With merciless spur, he drove the animal to 
full speed, in spite of his wound ; and thus pur- 
suers and pursued swept onward toward the sea. 

It was now a race for life. The party com- 
manded by Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke were 
every moment gaining on the sailor. Either 
they caught glimpses of him, or heard the sound 
of his horse’s hoofs. They came closer and 
closer, and Earle heard them, and prepared for 
the worst. 

As his horse went on at full speed nearly, in 
spite of the painful limp, the sailor slipped hia 
belt round, and placed the handle of his pistol 
where he could easily grasp it. 


THE FLAG WITH THE LILIES . 183 


“ If tliey come up, I will fight them all,” he 
muttered, with his short, defiant laugh. “ That 
is not brave ; it is the only course ! If I am 
arrested, I will die on the gallows. Yes, my 
good Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke, you ph ty with 
edged tools. You may come up with me, but 
you come to your death ! ” 

A pistol-shot was heard, and a bullet whistled 
by his head. He drew his own weapon, but 
did not fire. 

“ I am too good a sailor to waste my shot,” he 
muttered. 

An d he went on, pursued by cries ; they evi- 
dently saw him, and were gaining rapidly on 
him. 

The mist opening for a moment, gave him all 
at once a full glimpse of the party. At their 
head rode Sir Murdaugh, and Earle heard him 
howl, — 

“ Shoot him down ! Death to him I ” 

Then the mist enveloped them. 

But from this mist came, nearer and nearer, 
the lioof-strokes and the cries. Earle’s horse 
staggered under him, and seemed about to fall. 

From the front, as before, came the thunder 
of cannon, and with this now mingled the hoarse 
dash of the waves. 


184 THE FLAG WITH THE LILIES. 

“ The coast is near. I caniot see, but there 
is the sound a sailor knows,” muttered Earle. 

The roll of the surf grew louder. With it 
came now the confused sound of voices. 

Earle’s brows were heavily knit. 

“ I had forgotten that!” he exclaimed 
“ While I am followed by this party, bent on 
my death, another party awaits me yonder. Be- 
tween the two I shall be crushed! ” 

The wind whirled away the mist, and on the 
strand were seen confused shapes, — men run* 
tiing to and fro. 

“ I have mistaken my route, and am near 
Oldport,” muttered Earle. 

Then gazing before him, — 

“ If these people see roe, I am lost ! ” he ex 
claimed. 

As he spoke, the party behind rushed upon 
him, with fierce shouts. F rom the mist en terged 
a whirlwind of furious enemies, pistol in hand. 

“ Halt ! or you are dead ! ” 

Earle replied by firing at the baronet. 

The bullet passed through his hat. Only a 
moment afterwards a hail-storm of balls whis- 
tled around the sailor. 

Bis horse had struck his wounded foot, and, 
half falling, saved the life of his rider. 


THE FLAG WITH THE LILIES . 135 


The bullets passed over Earle’s head, And the 
baronet uttered a cry of rage. 

“ Ride him down ! See, his horse will carry 
him no farther ! ” 

Earle drove the spur deep into his animal’s 
side. The only result was that the horse uttered 
i groan, and nearly fell. 

At the same moment violent hands caught 
the bridle, and threw him on his haunches. 

“Who be you ? ” cried a voice — the voice of 
the man in front. 

Earle recognized that voice. It belonged to 
Goliath. 

He threw himself from the saddle. 

“ I am one of the wolves ! ” he said ; “ and 
they are after me ! ” 

“ You 1” exclaimed the giant, recognizing 
him. 

“ Yes : listen ! Yonder are the men who are 
hunting me down ! ” 

The baronet rushed on with his men, whc 
uttered shouts of triumph. 

“ Who be these ? ” said Goliath. 

“ Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke and the revenue 
guard !” 

Ho sooner had Goliath heard Earle’s reply 
than he drew a long knife. His next proceed 


186 THE FLAG WITH THE HUES. 


*ng was to utter a shrill and prolonged cry, re- 
sembling the scream of the sea-gull. 

At that cry, dusky shapes rushed toward him 
from every direction. The wolves had evident- 
ly recognized the signal, which meant, “ One o l 
the wolves is in danger ! ” 

“ You be safe, master,” said Goliath. 

Earle drew his second pistol. 

Go on, master ; where you be going?” 

“ I am not going anywhere ! ” 

As he spoke, the pursuers darted upon them. 

“ Kill him ! ” exclaimed the baronet, “ and all 
who resist ! ” 

As he spoke he fired at Earle, and, riding at 
him, levelled a blow at him with his pistol, 
which was still smoking. 

The sailor parried it, and fired on the baronet, 
so close that the powder blackened his face. As 
the weapon was discharged, the horse ridden by 
the baronet took fright and wheeled. He was 
not destined to bear off his rider, however, who 
had remained uninjured. One of the wolves 
caught the baronet by the throat and dragged 
him down. Then the fight surged over him. 
Quick pistol-shots, cries, the revenue guards 
scattering and flying, hotly pursued, — such 
were the sounds and sights which greeted Six 


THE FLAG WITH THE LILIES . X87 


Murdaugh as lie rolled to the earth, and a pow- 
erful wolf placed his knee on Km. 

“ Quick, master,” said Goliath to Earle ; “ the 
light be over ! take care of yourself ! ” 

“ Thanks.” 

And Earle caught a horse and threw himself 
into the saddle. 

“ Good-by, brother ! ” he said, grasping the 
huge hand of Goliath; “you have saved my 
life to-night, and I shall not forget that.” 

Goliath shook his head. 

“ No need of thanking me, master. You be 
a wolf, but look out ! ” 

Earle turned in the direction indicated by 
the giant’s finger. 

The sound of cavalry coming on at full gal- 
lop was heard. 

“ The revenue station people ! ” 

“ They are too late l ” 

And with a last pressure of the hand, Earle 
darted off along the shore toward the spot 
where the boat awaited him. 

In ten minutes he stopped, and threw him- 
self tc ;he earth. 

Then he began to run along the narrow ledge 
of rock, and disappeared in the shadow of tho 
headland. 


188 THE FLAG WITH THE LILIES . 


Ten minutes afterwards the revenue guard 
who had ridden down to the shore, might have 
been heard uttering cries. 

A boat had darted from the shadow of the 
headland, above which suddenly soared the 
beacon light. The gigantic torch lit up all. 
The ruddy glare turned night into day. The 
boat was rowed by four men, and another in 
uniform stood erect in the stern. 

A shower of bullets from the guard, who 
rode down into the surf, greeted the boat. 

The reply aroused furious shouts and more 
shots. 

It was simple. 

The man in the stern unfurled a flag, and 
waved his hat. 

The glare of the beacon fell on the flag. 

On its defiant folds were emblazoned the 
lilies of France; and, as though, to salute it, a 
Balvo of cannon roared from the channel. 

Earle waved his hat a second time in triumph, 
and in ten minutes the boat had disappeared in 
the mist. 



PART III. 

BURIED ALIVE. 


CHAPTER L 


BARON DELAMERE. 




[ 1STIL nearly midnight the cannon con 
tinued to roar from St. George’s Chan- 
nel ; then the dull sound receded, was 
heard at intervals only ; then ceased. 

Three days afterwards Ilis French Majesty’s 
corvette the Solitaire, entered the port of Brest, 
having in tow His Britannic Majesty's sloop-of- 
war the Hornet , which had attacked the cor* 
vette in St. George’s Channel, off the coast of 
Pembrokeshire, and very nearly succeeded in 
sinking the Fren oilman. 

( 1 «» 


190 


BARON DELAMERE. 


In fact the fight was plainly going in favor oi 
the Hornet , and the corvette was trying to get 
off, when a boat rowed by four sailors, with a 
fifth person standing in the stem, was seen mak- 
ing its way from shore, directly under the fire 
of the Hornet's guns — and this boat in the 
midst of plunging shot, and a fire of musketry 
directed at it, reached the corvette ; the person 
in the stern leaping instantly upon deck, and, 
as the English commander could see, taking 
command. 

From that moment the fight became far 
more obstinate; and it was soon obvious that 
whoever the commanding officer of the corvette 
might be, he had resolved to go to the bottom 
rather than strike his flag. Success crowned 
his hard work — it was the sloop-of-war which 
struck her flag, and the corvette sailed away 
with her, managing to evade the English crui- 
sers and reach Brest in safety. 

Such had been the result of Earle’s night 
combat in St. George’s Channel, — victory over 
a waspish craft manned by good men, and 
commanded by a brave old sea-dog. He sailed 
into Brest with colors flying, and was saluted 
by the fortress with the roar of cannon. 

An hour afterwards he had cast anchor 


BARON DELAMERE. 


191 


His barge was manned, and he sprung into 
it. The oars fell, the barge danced over the 
waves, Earle touched shore ; and was soon 
bowing, cocked hat in hand, in presence of 
the great Due de Choiseul, prime minister, 
who chanced, happily for the sailor’s fortunes 
to be on a visit to Brest, and to witness his 
triumphal entry. 

A week afterwards Captain Edmond Earle 
was travelling post from Paris to the village 
of Martigny. 

The object of his visit was to procure a 
copy of his baptismal register, and the formal 
record of the marriage of his father and 
mother. 

These documents were necessary before he 
could be created Baron Delamere. 

That was the reward designed to be con- 
ferred on the young sailor; and for the sug- 
gestion he was indebted to no less a personage 
than the Yiscount Cecil. 

A few words will place the reader in pos- 
session of the details. Our history passes in 
Wales, and only touches for a few moments 
the French shore. 

The capture of the viscount had pleased 
everybody, and the court was thus in high 


192 


BARON DELAMERR. 


good lmmour. He was released at once cm 
parole ; feted by the anti-war party; received 
with great politeness by his grace the Due do 
Choiseulj whose word was law throughout 
France ; and one morning when he was 
shown into the minister’s cabinet he found 
Earle in waiting. 

“ Ah ! you have returned then, my deaT 
Captain ? ” he said. 

“ As you see, my lord,” said Earle, bowing 

“And, I have heard, with a prize. What 
ship had the bad luck to meet you ? ” 

“ I was attaked by His Britannic Majesty’s 
sloop-of-war Hornet , my lord.” 

“Commanded by Digby! You had a hard 
fight?” 

“ A very hard one, my lord. Captain Digby 
did not seem to know when he ought to strike ! 
A very brave man ! ” 

The Yiscount Cecil bowed. 

“When one brave sailor speaks well of an- 
other, we civilians should listen.” 

“Your lordship does me great honor.” 

“ Hot more than you deserve, sir. Come to 
England — I will have you made a peer l ” 

The Due de Choiseul laughed. 

“ What say you, Monsieur le Capitaine ! ” 


BARON DELAMERE. 


193 


The sailor bowed. 

“ I have a flag, my lord. It is the flag of 
the lilies ! ” 

The viscount approached the duke. 

“ See, monsergneur! you have a nobleman 
already made there.” 

“ But you think, my Lord Viscount — ” said 
Choiseul. 

“That you should make him a baron, at 
least, monseigneur.” 

“ Baron — whom ? ” 

“Stay: I find you a name, monseigneur. 
Delamere — de-la-mer . He captured me while 
bearing that name ; and I assure your lordship 
that he will honor your patent.” 

The Due de Choiseul inclined politely. 

“Will it oblige Monsieur le Vicopte ?” 

“ Very greatly, my lord. It is a great privi- 
lege to be able to reward merit — I have en- 
joyed it at times.” 

The duke took a large sheet of paper, wrote 
some lines upon it, and then affixed his seal 
to it. 

“ Monsieur le Baron Delamere,” he said, tim- 
ing to Earle, “ take this paper to the Bureau 
of Record, which you will easily find, and 
have all the formalities attended to by the 
18 


m 


BARON DELAMERE* 


chief of the Bureau. You will thei report is 
fifteen days to the admiral at Brest for orders 
The Temeravre will await you there, and you 
will take command of her ! ” 

Earle bowed low. The Temeraire was a 
frigate of the first class ; and he was dizzy for 
joy. He did not think of the paper in his 
hand. But when he found himself in the 
antechamber he glanced at it. 

“ Edmond Earle — created — by His Majesty 
— for important services — Baron Delamere. 
Okoiseul.” 

Earle read something like that. The whole 
affair astonished him. And he owed this latter 
distinction to his brave enemy the viscount ! 

As he walked on, in a dream as it were, ho 
felt a hand laid upon his arm. 

He turned quickly. It was the Viscount 
Cecil. 

“ Farewell, baron ; I return to England to 
morrow,” said the viscount. 

“ You are released, then, my lord ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I am overjoyed to be so ii formed. It was 
by my act that you have been thus incon- 
venienced — and your revenge has been 
princely, my lord.” 


BARON DELAMERE. 


195 


The viscount took the sailor’s arm, and they 
walked on together. 

“ Listen, my dear Captain Earle — for that 
is your most honorable title,” said Viscount 
Cecil : “ I am an old man now, and have seen 
a great deal of the world. I never prided my- 
on many things, but I think I recognize a 
gentleman whenever I meet one. Well, you 
conducted yourself as such in capturing me, 
and you beat Digby — those two facts have 
much impressed me. To day I found the 
occasion — his grace was in an excellent humor. 
He has made you a baron — you deserve that, 
sir; and when the war ends, come and see 
me. I live at Wentworth Castle — you will 
always be welcome there. Farewell, Captain ! 
There is the Bureau of Record.” 

And he held out his hand, which Earl© 
pressed warmly. 

“Thanks, my lord,” he said. “ The king en- 
nobles me for a fight and a victory. But thero 
are others who dc not require that, since they 
are noblemen by nature.” 

And they parted, — Earle entering the 
Bureau. 

He was ushered into an inner apartment, 
where a dry-looking individual scowled at him. 


BARON DELAJfERE. 


ltffl 


At sight of the paper in the writing of Chcieeul, 
however, this individual dissolved into profuse 
politeness. 

"Will Monsieur lc Baron be seated?” he 
said, bowing and pointing to a chair. “ This 
patent is in regular order. I congratulate Mon- 
sieur le Baron. A few formalities only are nec- 
essary, — mere formalities; namely, the full 
name of Monsieur lc Baron’s father and mother, 
and the date of their marriage; also, the date 
of Monsieur lo Baron’s birth : that will be all. 
Delighted to serve Monsieur le Baron ! ” 

And the functionary executed another bow. 

Earle responded in the same manner, and 
left the Bureau, with “Monsieur le Baron” 
fairly ringing in his ears. 

On the next morning he set out for Mar 
tigny, in Normandy, remembering the writing 
in the recluse’s missal. 

Just at dusk he reached the village. 

As he entered it in the post-carriage, a man 
muffled in a heavy overcoat passed, running 
rapidly. 

The man seemed making for the sea-coast, a 
mile or so distant, where some vul-boats were 
seen. 

Earle scarcely looked at him He stopped 


BARON DELAMERE. 


197 


at the inn. and was directed to the house of 
the cur 4. 

“ What is your pleasure, my son ? ” said the 
old priest, meeting him on the steps. 

“ To see your register, father, and find the 
date of the marriage of the Temerairc ! 
Pshaw I — pardon, father! They have given 
me a frigate, and it has turned my head ! ” 





CHAPTER IL 

'i n M MUTILATED REGISTER. 

Ilfwo hours before the appearance of Earle 
~j|| at the village of Martigny, a man of 
powerful frame, his face half-covered 
by a heavy beard, had knocked at the 
door of the old priest’s house, and, receiving 
the reply “ Come in,” had entered. 

“ You are the priest of this parish ? ” said the 
man, with a foreign accent. 

“ Yes, my son.” 

“ And you have in your possession the record 
of births in the parish?” 

“ Yes, my son.” 

“ I wish to examine them, — to find the reg- 
istry of the birth of Jean Angely, cordwainer,” 
said the man. 

The old priest mildly inclined his head. 

( 198 ) 


THE MUTILATED REGISTER. 1% 


44 That will be easy, my son. But you know 
we poor priests are very curious, having so 
little to amuse us. The object of this inquiry, 
my son?” 

44 That Jean Angely may inherit property 
left to him. His cousin, Guillaume Angely, 
of Tours, leaves a farm to Jean Angely, born 
at Martigny, and son of Robert Angely and 
Suzanne, his wife. The fact of his birth 
needs formal proof. The register will prove 

it.” 

The priest inclined his head, and, after a mo- 
ment’s hesitation, opened a closet. From this 
he took a large volume in black leather, and 
laid it on the table. 

44 The date is about 17 — , ” said the man. 

44 An error of a year, my son.” 

44 It may be.” 

And the man turned over the leaves, examin- 
ing the register. 

As he was thus engaged, a second knock 
came at the door. 

44 Come in!” repeated the old priest, and & 
child entered. 

44 Well, my little one ? ” 

The child modestly held down his head and 

said, — 


200 


THE MUTILATED REGISTER. 


“ Mother Francois is dying, and wishes to ses 
you, father.” 

“ Mother Francois I Dying ! Why, she was 
scarcely ill ! ” 

He rose quickly And put on his hat. Then 
he stopped, looldng toward the man. 

Compassion conquered, however, and he 
went toward the door. 

“ I will return speedily, my son. Await my 
coming.” 

And he left the room. 

As the door closed, the man turned round 
and listened attentively. The priest’s footsteps 
receded. 

“ Good I ” he said ; “ my little trap has caught 
the old bird. I have ten minutes.” 

With a sharp knife he rapidly cut from the 
volume one of the leaves. This he examined a 
second time, to be sure that no mistake had been 
made, folded, and placed in his pocket-book ; 
returned the latter to his pocket; and, taking 
pen, ink, and paper, carefully copied the entry 
in the register, relating to Jean Angely, cord- 
wainer. 

He was thus occupied when the old priest 
returned, red in the face, and looking much 
mortified. 


THE MUTILATED REGISTER . 2C1 


“ These children! these children!” he mur- 
mured: “to think of Emile Drouet playing a 
trick on me.” 

The man raised his head. 

“They played a trick, do you say?” he in- 
quired. 

“ Yes, yes, my son ; Mother Francois was 
much better than when I saw her this morning, 
and had never sent Emile. That child will 
turn out badly.” 

“ A young rascal ! ” said the man. “ Well, I 
have copied the entry I wish, and you can at- 
test it.” 

“ I will do so with pleasure, my son.” 

And comparing the copy of the entry, it waa 
found correct. The old priest then certified on 
the paper that it was a true copy, signed his 
name, and the man folded up the document, 
and put it in his pocket. 

“ Is any fee to he paid ? ” he asked. 

“ None, my son. It is my duty to keep the 
register, and afford access to it. I can even 
offer you a part of my poor dinner, if it please 
you to share it.” 

This the man declined, and wrapping a great 
overcoat around him, he straightway left the 
priest’s house 


THE MUTILATED REGISTER. 


Ho did not go to the inn, but out toward tli« 
suburbs, in the direction of the coast. 

Once in the suburbs, he began to run, mak- 
ing for a clump of woods on a hill. 

He saw a post-carriage driving rapidly into 
Marti gny from the direction of Paris. 

He scarcely glanced at it, and reaching th« 
woods, disappeared. 




CHAPTER HL 

THE REVELATION. 

day seemed destined to be a busy 
i for the good priest of Martigny. 

?he man who had called to examine 
record of the birth of Jean Angely 
had scarce left him, when another appeared, 
anxious to know “ the date of the marriage of 
the Temeraire” 

Earle laughed, and corrected himself. 

“I mean the date of the marriage of one 
who was probably a member of your flock, 
father.” 

“ Her name, my son ? ” 

“ Marianne Earle.” 

The old priest looked up quickly. 

“ Marianne Earle, my son? ” he said. 

u Fes, father. Did you net know her ?” 

( 203 ) 



•204 


THE REVELATION. 


“ As I should know my own child, had I en 
joyed the happiness of paternity.” 

“ Then you loved her ? ” 

“ Tenderly.” 

Again the old priest looked intently at Earle, 
“Well, father, then you will certainly be 
pleased to aid me. I am her son.” 

“ You the son of Marianne Earle I ” 

The sailor nodded. 

“ Does that seem strange, father ? ” 

“ And she sends you ? ” 

Earle shook his head. 

“ Why, then, do you come ? ” 

Earle explained his object 
The old priest listened, quietly ; but it was 
plain that he was weighing every word which 
his companion uttered. 

“Now you understand, father. Pray Iook 
for your register. I wish to find the date of 
my mother’s marriage, and that of my birth 
too.” 

I The old priest did not move. 

! “ In a moment, my son. Where is j our mo 

ther now ? ” 

“ In Wales.” 

“ You have seen her lately ! ” 

“Yea.” 


THE REVELATION, 


206 

“ And she could not inform you of the exac» 
date \ ” 

u Doubtless ; but the occasion has just arisen ; 
moreover, she has always preserved a singular 
silence on these matters.” 

“Her silence has been judicious, my son, 5 
said the old priest, gravely ; “ I know its cause 
and approve it.” 

“ What is the cause ? ” 

“ I will tell you frankly. She wishes to pre- 
serve you from a knowledge of your father.” 

“ Of my father ? Was he not her cousin, Ed- 
mond Earle of the Marine ? ” 

The priest hesitated an instant. 

“ Ho,” he said at length ; “ he was a heretic.” 

“ My father a heretic ! — and not Edmond 
Earle ! — you astound me, father ! ” 

“I tell you flie truth, my son; and your 
mother had good reason to conceal all this. 
She was one of my flock, and I knew every 
thought of her heart. Every breath she drew 
was purity itself, and she placed her religious 
duties before all. Your father would surely 
have corrupted you — hence she fled to rescue 
you. How you come and ask me to tell you, in 
effect the name of that father. Do you vondei 
I hesitate ? ’ 


206 


THE REVELATION. 


Earle pondered with knit brow fa a moment 
“No father — but — it is astounding! Ed- 
mond Earle not my father ? His name, then I 
his name ! Or rather let me see the register ! ” 
The old priest said solemnly, — 

“ Swear to me, that you will not be corrupted 
by him, my son.” 

“ Corrupted?” 

“ That you will not permit him to shake your 
faith in the Holy Church.” 

“ I swear it, father. I am a good Catholic^ 
and will die in the true faith ! Does that sat- 
isfy you ? My father’s name now? ” 

“ Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke.” 




CHAPTER IV. 

THE DISCO VEBY. 

ARLE gave a violent start and turned bo 
pale that he seemed about to faint. 

“ Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke I ” he 
gasped, — “ that man my father I ” 

“ Yes!” 

“You laugh at me, old man! My fibber 
was a French sailor, Edmond Earle, a liave 
man and a good Catholic.” 

“You are mistaken. Your father was an 
Englishman, and I am sorry to say a heretic, 
my son ! ” 

Good heavens ! ” 

The old priest assumed an expression vhjfdj 
said, — 

u It is melancholy, but true ! ” 

Then he added in words, — 

“ You doubtless have seen hirn ? ” 

CS07) 



208 


THE DISCOVERY, 


“Yes,” said the sailor, in a low voice ; hi§ 
orows knit, his eyes fixed upon the carpet. 

“ Without knowing of the relationship ? ” 

“ I never dreamed of it,” said Earle, in the 
same tone. 

Then rising suddenly, and losing sight appar- 
ently of the presence of the priest, he paced 
hurriedly up and down the room, exclaiming at 
intervals, — 

“ That man my father ! — the husband of my 
mother, living there within sight of her; never 
acknowledging, or perhaps not knowing her! 
It is incredible, or it is infamous ! That mur- 
derer whom I have just renounced! that man 
who has tracked, and hunted me to my death 
well-nigh ! that assassin, that infamous excres- 
cence of humanity, — this wretch my father! 
my own father ! ” 

He sank into a chair, and covered his face 
with both hands. His breast shook, a deep sob 
tore its way from his lips, and scalding tears 
trickled between his fingers. ^ 

The old priest went to him, and said socth- 

m g!y, — 

“ Do not be so much moved, my son. No 
human being can control his fate. It is noi 
your fault that you are this man’s son. Dry your 


THE DISCOVERY. 


209 


tears ; seek consolation where alone it is to be 
found, and all will once more grow peaceful in 
your breast. Lift up your heart ! ” 

The old man man raised his hand, and 
pointed toward heaven. Earle slowly inclined 
his head, and removed his hands. His face waa 
wet with tears. 

“ Enough, father,” he said. “ I was a child 
for a moment, but I am a man again.” 

His face flushed. He rose to his feet. 

“Yes, a man! and my mother shall not suf- 
fer!” 

“ Your mother?” 

“ She shall not be repudiated by that man ! 
1 know him too well ; he has acted infamously, 
if he is my father ; he is bent on acting more in- 
famously still.” 

“ Tell me all, my son.” 

“He designs marrying a second time; and 
even now may be perfecting that crime in spite 
of all I have done to destroy him ! ” 

“ You ! a second marriage ! Why that would 
be no marriage, since your mother still lives, 
you say. And you speak of attempting to des- 
troy him ! How is all this, my son ? ” 

Earle grew calm, collected, and on his guard 
all at once. The old priest’s foible was evidently 
14 


210 


THE D. SCO VERY. 


curiosity ; but the sailor did not wish to gratify 
this curiosity. A heavy weight was on his heart, 
and he saw that there was no time to lose if he 
meant to act. 

“ I am in haste now, father,” he said, “ and 
must reserve my story for another occasion. 
At present I request that you will exhibit to me 
your register, and supply me with an attested 
copy of the marriage record of Marianne Earle 
and Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke. It is here — 
the register 1 ” 

“ Yes, my 6on ; there upon the table.” 

And the old priest approached the table, and 
opened the volume bound in black leather. 

“Another person has just visited me, on an 
errand similar to yours, my son. His object 
was to procure a copy, attested, of a certain 
birth entry. What you wish is further back. 
It ought to be here,” he added, stopping as he 
turned over the leaves. 

He examined the pages. 

“ Strange I” he said. “ I do not find it, and 
yet — ” 

He looked at the paging of the velum e. At 
a glance it was evident that one of the sheets 
was missing, since page 39 followed page 36. 

“Can it be 2 ” 


THE DISCOVERY, 


211 


A^d the priest examined the volume more 
closely. A sheet had been cut out. The nar 
rr w strip remained indicating the theft. 

“ It is incredible ! How was it possible ? Yes, 
yes 1 while I was absent ! That was a plan laid 
to remove me. Hot a doubt of it ! ” 

“ What is the matter, father ? ” exclaimed 
Earle. 

“It is gone, my son. The entry of youi 
father and mother’s marriage has been stolen ! ” 

“ Stolen ! By whom ? ” 

“ By the man who was here an hour ago. ” 

“ The man — !” 

u An Englishman, as I conjectured from his 
accent. He had me sent for on a false errand ; 
remained here, and must have cut out this leaf.” 

Earle gazed in astonishment at the book, and 
saw the narrow slip. 

“ What interest could any one have in — ” 

Suddenly he stopped. 

“ An Englishman, did you say, father ? ” 

1 “ As I supposed, my son.” 

“ His appearance ? ” 

“A large man of great bulk and strength, 
though not talk He had a heavy black beard on 
his face, and wore an English dreadnought 
coat” 


212 


THE DISCOVERY. 


“ It was Wilde ! ” exclaimed Earle ; “ and lie 
was sent Either by his master. This proof of 
the marriage with my mother existed. lie is 
bent on marrying again, and has abstracted it.” 

He turned quickly, and seized his hat. 

“ What route did the man take, father ? ” 

“I can tell you that, my son. He went 
straight toward the coast.” 

Earle hastened toward the door. 

“Farewell, father! I am going to pursue 
him. I have fifteen days’ furlough ; this cloak 
will conceal my uniform. From this moment 
it is a struggle which of us shall reach England 
first. I will have that paper, or the life of the 
man who carries it on his person. If he arrives 
with it, all is lost ! If I come up with him all 
is saved. Farewell, father ! Your blessing. I 
go on a dangerous journey.” 

And turning suddenly, the young man knelt 
on one knee. 

“ Heaven bless and prosper you, my eon ! ” 

A moment afterwards Earle had disappeared 



CHAPTER V. 

THE BLOW OF THE WHIP. 

T the moment when Earle left Paris, on 
his way to Martigny, events of import- 
ance to the personages of this history 
were occurring in Pembrokeshire. 

Arthur Maverick was seated in his library, 
gloomily reflecting, when a servant entered and 
announced Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke. 

A moment afterwards the baronet entered. 

His brow was as black as night, and there 
was something venomous and yet apprehensive 
in the glance shot sidewise from his deep-set 
jyes. 

Arthur Maverick rose quickly. His whole 
person seemed suddenly to have stiffened into 
stone. 

“ Your pleasure, sir!” he said, in a roica 

( 212 ) 



214 


THE BLOW OF THE WHIP. 


which was scarcely recognizable “ What does 
my father’s murderer propose to himself ir 
coming to this house ? ” 

The young man’s expression was sick and 
scornful. It was plain that he tolerated the 
presence of the baronet only by a strong effort. 

“ I came to speak of that,” was the low reply 
of Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke; “to ascertain 
if I am to suffer in the estimation of yourself 
and the Misses Maverick from the testimony of 
a vagabond and the attack of a mad dog.” 

Arthur looked at him fixedly. 

“ How do you know that the vagabond testi- 
fied against you ? ” he said. 

Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke was caught. 

“ I thought as much. He is my enemy and 
has endevored to extort money from me. He 
made up the whole of this base charge. Your 
father and myself never met after our quarrel 
on the race-course.” 

“ Not even when he bound you to a tree and 
lashed you ? ” 

Sir Murdaugh quivered with rage at the 
scornful glance of the young man. 

“ That is a lie, like the charge of murder. He 
never so outraged me.” 

* -And you think I will believe you — you, the 


THE BLOW OF THE WHIP. 


215 


convicted liar and murderer'” exclaimed the 
young man. “ You suppose, then, that I am a 
baby — that because I have not arrested yon, 
you will go free. Undeceive yourself. Your 
fate approaches. At the next assizes I lay an 
information against you, and the gallows shall 
avenge my father.” 

Sir Murdaugh rose in tremendous wrath. 

“ Then there are none but enemies here,” he 
growled. 

“ You have one friend at least,” exclaimed a 
voice at the door, and Ellinor bounded into, 
rather than simply entered the apartment. 

“Yes!” she cried, “there is one person who 
disbelieves this infamous fabrication, this slan- 
der based on the testimony of spies and vaga- 
bonds and dogs. My cousin there,” and she 
scornfully pointed towards Authur, “may be 
lieve as he chooses, and insult the guests in his 
own house to his heart’s desire ; but I, at least, 
will not do that I cling to — ” 

“Your rich suitor, madam?” 

And with an expression of overpowering 
jacom, Arthur Maverick made his cousin a low 
V>w. 

The contempt of his voice and expression 
seemed to sting the fa i# r Ellinor into wild rage. 


216 


THE BLOW OF THE WHIR 


“If I am to be insulted, I will leave this 
house. I am not homeless; Lady Worsham 
will protect me.” 

“ As you please, madam,” said the young man, 
making her a second bow of profound cere- 
mony. “ You are welcome here as long as you 
remain Miss Ellinor Maverick. If you design 
becoming Lady Westbrooke, the ceremony will 
not take place here.” 

The young lady could scarce contain her rage 
at these words. 

“Very well, sir,” she said, shooting a wrathful 
glance at her cousin ; “ will you have the good- 
ness to order a carriage to take me to Lady 
Worsham’s ?” 

Arthur Maverick quietly rang a bell, and a 
servant entered. 

“ The coach ! ” he said. 

The servant disappeared. 

“I will not remain here an instant longer 
than is necessary, sir.” 

And going out, the young lady banged the 
door violently after her. 

Sir Murdaugh had listened attentively. He 
had supposed his suit at an end forever. Now 
the unexpected turn of affairs showed him that 
he might derive enormous advantage from 


THE BLOW OF THE WHIP. 


217 


frill nor’ s continued adhesion to her engagement 
Who would be brought to believe that he was a 
murderer, when Miss Maverick consented to ba 
come Lady Westbrooke? Would the niece 
marry the murderer of her own uncle ? No one 
would believe that. It was with a sudden senti- 
ment of safety and triumph, therefore, that the 
baronet prepared to depart. 

“ I will imitate Miss Maverick now, sir, and 
rid you of my furthur presence here,” he said, 
venomously. 

“ Do so,” said Arthur Maverick, “ and beware 
how you return.” 

“ And you, sir, beware how you insult me,” 
hissed the baronet. 

“ Insult you ? You are not worth insult.” 

“ Beware ! ” 

“ This is my reply to you.” 

And seizing a riding-whip lying on the table 
near, the young man, in a wild rage at the pres- 
ence of his father’s murderer, struck the baronet 
a furious blow across the face. 

In an instant they would have clutched each 
other ; but the door suddenly llew open. 

“The blood-hound, sir!” exclaimed a servant, 
rushing into the apartment. 

“What of the hound i” said Arthur Mav. 


218 


THE BLOW OF THE WHIP. 


erick, pale with passion, and quivering in every 
muscle. 

“ There at the door, sir. He has gone mad, 
they say.” 

In spite of himself, the baronet turned pale. 

“We meet again!” he gasped, hoarsely, ad 
dressing Arthur Maverick. “ You have struck 
me, outraged me : you shall answer with your 
life.” 

And seeing that the way was clear, he 
hastened forth and mounted his horse. A mo* 
ment afterward, he was going down the avenue 
at full speed. 

Suddenly a hoarse and prolonged bay was 
heard in the grounds. Then a white object 
darted swiftly from a mass of shrubbery on hia 
track. 

The blood-hound had seen and was pursuing 
him. 




CHAPTER VI . 

THE MAD DOG. 

baronet rode on at the fall speed of 
horse. 

Chat deep and ominous bay had 
wn him his danger, and he had now 
a double reason to fear the blood-hound. Not 
only was the animal his sworn enemy as the 
murderer of Giles Maverick, — he was mad, and 
his bite was mortal, no longer & mere wound. 

Thus it was a race for life. As he went on 
at headlong speed, he heard the hound on his 
track. 

The dog had cleared the tall gate in the wall 
enclosing the grounds, at one leap ; had plainly 
descried the baronet going at full speed over 
the high-road; and now, with hanging tongue, 
quick pants, and grinning mouth, he pursued 

(219) 



220 


THE MAJ> DOG, . 


him at a pace which premised to put his enemj 
in his power in a few minutes. 

Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke was brave, but Lis 
heart sank within him as he drove his horse on. 
The hoarse bay of the mad hound rang in his 
ears like the trump of doom. Every instant he 
seemed to be gaining on his enemy in the wild 
race. 

Suddenly his horse, into whose sides he had 
driven the spur mercilessly, stumbled and half 
fell. 

With a curse, his rider dragged him up, and 
again struck the spur into him. 

But the instant thus lost was nearly fatal to 
the baronet. The hound reached him and 
sprung at his throat, his eyes glaring, his mouth 
slavering. 

But for the sudden grasp on the bridle, that 
moment would have been the baronet’s last 
The horse rose to his feet again, and the blood- 
hound missed his spring. The sharp teeth, in- 
stead of fixing themselves in the baronet’s throat, 
clutched his riding boot. 

Death had grazed him thus, and he improved 
the incident promptly. 

With a blow from his clenched hand, cased 
in a heavy riding gauntlet, he burled the hound 


THE MAD DOG. 


221 


from him. The animal rolled over on his back, 
and again the baronet went on headlong, intent 
on nothing now but escape. 

All at once, however, the ominous bay was 
again heard. With a sudden chill at his heart, 
he turned his head and looked back. The hound 
was once more pursuing him, more resolute and 
enraged than before. 

At that spectacle the murderer felt a pang of 
mortal fear. Despair clutched him, as he felt 
the venomous teeth would soon do. The image 
of the man whom he had assassinated rose and 
“ shook his gory locks at him.” In the agony 
of his soul he shouted, — 

“Help! help! that dog will murder me. 
Help!” 

Suddenly his horse shied violently. He had 
nearly ridden over a man in the road. This 
man was rudely clad, and shouted, — 

“ What be the matter ? ” 

“ The dog ! ” gasped the baronet. 

And he looked over his shoulder. 

The mad blood-hound was within ten feet of 
him. 

“ Ten guineas if you kill him ! ” he gasped. 

As he spoke, the hound sprung. But the 
man had understood, and met him. 


222 


THE MAD DOG. 


They clutched and rolled on the road, locked 
in a mortal hug. 

The baronet did not wait. He put spur to hia 
horse and disappeared at headlong speed toward 
Westbrooke Hall. 

He was saved. 


An hour afterward one of the fraternity of 
wolves entered Oldport, with his breast covered 
with blood. 

The blood flowed from a deep wound in his 
throat, which had swelled suddenly. 

When his brother wolves questioned him, he 
said he had met a man chased by a dog, the man 
had offered him ten guineas to kill the dog, and 
he had killed him. 

Then the “wolf ” ceased speaking, and began 
to snap at those around him. 

Two days afterwards he was attacked with 
convulsions, and four men were required to 
hold him. 

On the next day he was calmer, but suddenly 
drawing up his limbs, expired. 

The dead hound had been discovered on the 
road to Maverick House. The “wolf ” had sue 


THE MAD DOG. 


223 


cecded in strangling him, but the mortal poison 
had been communicated. 

He had died of the bite of the mad dog, in 
place of the baronet, and even the ten guinea* 
^ere unpaid. 




CHAPTER VII. 


TUT! BURIAL OF THE WOLF. 


( ^ITE wob.es followed their dead companion 
v I if to the grave, with solemn ceremony. 

'■ The scene of sepulture was a wild spot 
i on the very brink of the sea, and the fish- 
ermen had enclosed the space by piling up 
masses of 1 cck, which from the channel resem- 
bled rough defences against cannon. 

Up the rugged path which led to this burial 
place they now bore the dead wolf, the rude 
coffin enclosing his remains carried on the 
shoulders of his brethren ; and reaching the 
wall, they lifted the coffin over, and carried it 
to the side of the grave. 

Then the ceremony of interring a member of 
the fraternity of the wolves began. No priest 
of any denomination was present, and there was 
something heathenish in the strange rites. 

( 224 ) 



THE BURIAL OF THE WOLP. 225 

Haxids were joined around the grav*, the 
wolves circled it slowly, beating the ground 
witli monotonous feet ; then a wild and melan- 
choly chant rose, and was carried away by the 
wind. 

This lasted for half an hour. Then the hands 
were unlocked and the coffin lowered into the 
grave amid deep murmurs. 

“Who is this we be a burying?” came in 
hoarse tones from the gigantic Goliath. 

“A wolf I ” was the muffled response from the 
voices of all present. 

Goliath extended his hand solemnly. 

“ So mote it be ! ” he thundered ; “ and cursed 
be the man who moves the bones of a wolf ! ” 

As he spoke he took a handful of earth and 
threw il on the coffin. The men did likewise, 
each in turn, and the grave was speedily filled. 

Then the wild-looking figures joined hands 
and encircled the grave once more, beat the 
ground with their feet, and repeated their 
monotonous chant. 

It ended at last. They left the burial ground, 
and slowly wound down the hill toward the 
coast. As they disappeared, night descended, 
and the moon rose, throwing her pallid light ok 
land and sea. 

15 


226 


THE BURIAL OF THE WOLF. 


Such had been the wolfs burial. 

An hour past midnight, and a figure leaped 
the wall, followed in a moment by another. 

The moon revealed the faces of these men, 
who carried picks and spades. They were the 
two rough personages whom Earle and the 
gypsy had encountered that night bearing the 
corpse into Westbrooke Hall. 

“ This is the place, mate,” said one of them ; 
u it is easily found.” 

“ By the fresh earth — you are right.” 

“ And now to work ; this job is dangerous.” 

“ Dangerous \ ” 

u This is one of the wolves, and Pm told they 
are sworn to put a knife into whoever disturbs 
one of ’em.” 

“ Ough ! I never heard that.” 

u It makes the job worth five guineas more.” 

u Exactly.” 

And without further words they proceeded 
vigorously to work. 

In an hour the coffin responded to the bluw 
of the pick. 

“Take care, mate!” Baid one, as the dull 
sound was heard. 

“ Bight.” 

And proceeding more carefully, they soon 


THE BURIAL OF THE WOLF. 227 


unearthed the long box without noise, and 
wrenching off the lid, dragged forth the dead 
body. 

“ He’s a rough-looking one,” muttered the 
man who lifted the corpse, “ and his neck is all 
swollen.” 

“ On account of the dog.” 

“ Hurry up, mate.” 

And laying the body on the earth, they pro- 
ceeded rapidly to fill up the grave again. 

This was soon accomplished, and they then 
lifted the body over the fence, and bore it on 
their shoulders down the rough path leading 
toward the interior. 

In a clump of bushes a small vehicle was 
waiting. Into this they pushed the corpse as if 
it were the body of an animal. 

“ Come on, mate ; I don’t like this job. Seems 
to me they are a watching of us.” 

And the speaker hastily got into the wagon. 
The other followed, and in a busines; like way 
took his seat on the corpse. 

Then the single horse was whipped up, the 
vehicle rolled away, and night swallowed it 

The grave of the wolf had been rifled. Would 
the curse descend ? 



CHAPTER VUL 


TIIE CHASE. 





Mj/ T was tlio niglit succeeding these events, 
c y ,i Darkness and storm had rushed down 
rv ' simultaneously on the coast of Pem- 



brokeshire. 


The surges of St. George’s Channel, lashed 
to fury by the breath of a veritable hurricane, 
broke in thunder on the jagged reefs and 
ledges of rock jutting from the water, and 
died away in the cavernous recesses beneath 
the great headland near Oldport, like the 
hoarse bellowing of bulls, 01 the dull boom of 
artillery. 

The coast was absolutely deserted. Scarce 
a light glimmered in Oldport. On the head- 
land, no beacon ight warned barks off the per- 
ilous reef. The light of the blood-red moor 


( 228 ) 


THE CHASE. 


223 


Bione, shining through a rift in the black 
clouds, toward the east, contended with the 
ebon darkness, and revealed, in their full hor- 
ror, the foam-capped reefs. 

All at once a sail-boat might have been seen 
darting toward land. It was a vessel of the 
smallest size, and careened terribly under the 
great pressure of canvas. 

Clinging to the single mast was a man 
wrapped in a dreadnought, and with his hand in 
his breast. Three other men were on the bark, 
but they were crouching, pale and sullen. 

“ We’ll all go to the bottom ! ” said one of 
the men, who seemed to be the owner of the 
boat. 

“ You are paid!” was the gruff reply of 
Wilde — for he it was who stood erect, clinging 
to the mast. 

“ What’s pay if we go down ? ” said the sullen 
one. 

“ But we wont ! ” 

“ Look at that reef ! Down with the helm 1 ” 

And he started to his feet. 

Ti e vessel grazed a grinning reef, scraped, 
and darted on. She was a mere cork — the 
winds drove her like a dry leaf of autumn c rei 
the foaming waves. 


230 


7 HE CHASE. 


“If I only arrive,” muttered Wilde, u I have 
my fortune here ! ” 

And he clutched a package in his breast, — 
the pocket-book containing the stolen leaf from 
the register at Martigny. 

“ Look I ” suddenly shouted the skipper of the 
vessel. “ There is that devilish craft following 
us still ! ” 

And he pointed to a sail-boat similar to his 
own, which was darting towards them. 

Wilde uttered a curse. 

“ I thought you had got away from her ! ” 

“ I thought so too ! But there she is, — fol- 
lowed us all the way from the coast of 
France ! ” 

And, knitting his brows, he muttered, — 

“ A sailor is on board of her ! I believe I’ll 
throw this Englishman overboard, and strike to 
the craft that’s been pursuing us 1 ” 

Wilde heard the muttered words, and drew 
a long knife from beneath his coat. 

“ Death to the man who touches me ! ” he 
growled, with the accent and manner of a wild 
animal. 

“ And death to the man who is running us 
on these reefs to go to the bottom ! ” 

As he spoke, the Frenchman drew a knife in 


THE CHASE. 


231 


his turn, his companions exactly imitated him, 
and they rushed straight on Wilde. 

It was too late. 

1 before they had reached him where he stood , 
c inging with his left hand to the mast, a crash 
like thunder was heard, the bark staggered, and 
reeled backward. She had run right on a reef, 
and two of the .Frenchmen were hurled over- 
board. 

As they disappeared, a single cry cut the 
darkness like a steel blade. An instant after- 
wards the heads were engulfed and the men 
dashed to pieces on the jagged rocks. 

The third Frenchman uttered a shout of rage, 
and struck at Wilde. 

As he did so, his foot slipped. 

An instant afterwards Wilde had seized him 
and hurled him into the sea. 

The craft grated with harsh thunder on the 
rocks, and then darted ahead. 

The momentary arrest of her progress had, 
however, given her pursuers time to gain upon 
her. 

As she drove on now, the craft following 
hovered above her, on the summit of a gigantic 
wave — and in the prow a man, wrapped in a 
cloak, gazed eagerly toward her. 


232 


THE CHASE, 


“She struck, Captain!” said ,ne *f the 
men, “ and look ! — again ! ” 

In fact, the sail-boat containing Wilde, had 
rushed straight on a still more dangerous 
reef. 

It finished her. The sharp teeth tore her 
hull to shreds — she burst in two, and her mast 
sunk, dragging the sail like the wing of a 
wounded sea-bird. Wilde was thrown into the 
water, and struck out powerfully for the strand, 
now not two hundred yards distant. 

“He will escape ! ” cried the man in the boat 
in pursuit. 

And without a moment’s hesitation he threw 
off his cloak, and plunged into the boiling 
waves. 

Then a tremendous contest took place be- 
tween the adversaries. On one side was enor- 
mous strength and great skill as a a swimmer ; 
on the other, equal skill, if not so much 
strength, and a burning resolve to reach the 
man he was in pursuit of, or die. 

The wind howled ; the waves struck them ; 
the moon was blotted out ; all was darkness* 
Still Wilde darted 0:1, pursued by Earle. 



CHAPTER IX. 

THE MYSTERY OF THE DEAD BODIES. 

f niLE these events were occurring ca 
the storm-lashed coast of St. George’s 
Channel, a sombre scene might have 
been witnessed at Westbrooke Hall. 

In an apartment of the mansion, furnished 
with only two or three chairs and a long pine 
table, Sir Murdaugli Westbrooke, clad in his 
old dressing-gown, with the sleeves rolled up, 
was dissecting a dead body. 

The corpse was that of the “ wolf,” carried 
off from the lonely spot near the sea ; and at the 
door stood one of the rough persons who had 
effected the robbery of the grave, thus pro- 
viding the “subject” which the baronet was 
engaged in dissecting 

Sir Murdaugh, with animated movement^ 

( 223 ) 


234 MYSTERY ' OF THE DEAD BODIES, 

and an expression of horrible avidity in hia 
eyes, cut away at the body: the man gazed at 
him with interest and a curiosity which was 
plain in his expression. 

All at once the baronet turned, bloody scalpel 
in hand, and grinned. His yellow tusks pro- 
truded frightfully thereupon, and, to speak 
plainly, he was extremely hideous. 

“ Gubbs 1 ” he said. 

The man thus addressed returned, — 

“ Your honor ? ” 

“ This seems a strange way of amusing my* 
self, Gubbs?” 

As the words were uttered in the tone of an 
inquiry, the man said, — 

“ Yes, your honor.” 

The baronet grinned again. The occupation 
in which he was engaged always put him in a 
good humor. To see the flesh of his dead sub- 
jects divide at the application of the knife, 
almost invariably communicated a singular 
and repulsive cheerfulness to the baronet’s 
expression. 

“You wonder, I suppose, Gubbs,” he said, 
“ why I dissect. Well, suppose I tell you. It 
is simple, and easily explained. When I was a 
young man, I acquired a taste for surgery in 


MYSTERY Ob THE DEAD BODIES. 235 


the great hospitals of Paris. I was poor — was 
then simple Hurdaugh Westbrooke; studied 
surgery. Afterwards I had no occasion to 
enter the fraternity of leg and arm cutters ; but 
I was as fond as ever of this — 1 am fond of 
h still; and so I amuse myself, you see, 
Gubbs, in this highly scientific manner.” 

The tusks became the most prominent 
features in the baronet’s face as he spoke. 
His yellow teeth came out too, jagged and 
awry ; his eyes, bloodshot but glittering with 
pleasure, rolled in their cavernous sockets. 

“ Other men like wine and cards and 
women,” said the baronet, plunging his knife 
into the body, — “ I like this ! ” 

And with a keen stroke, he cut into the sub- 
ject, making a clear circular incision which 
nearly divided it. 

“ Every man to his taste ! this is mine.’’ 

An d he eagerly repeated the stroke. As he 
did so, the knife slipped, and inflicted a slight 
wound upon his hand. 

“ Take care, your honor, ” said the man, “ I’ve 
hearn that was dangerous.” 

“ What?” 

“ To cut yourself while yen were carving 
away at one of them.” 


236 MYSTERY OF THE PEAD BODIES. 


And lie pointed to the body. 

“ True, it is sometimes. But a little wstei 
will prevent danger.” 

And going to a basin he washed his hands 
and looked at it. 

The knife had punctured the palm and blood 
exuded. 

“ An ugly scratch ! ” he muttered, “ but n? 
harm can come of it now.” 

As he spoke, he bound a handkerchief around 
the hand, and returned to his work. 

“ Anything further to do, to-night, your hoD 
or ? ” said the man. 

“ Nothing, but come back to-morrow.” 

All at once hurried steps were heard, and the 
door was thrown open. 

As it flew back, Wilde rushed in ; his face 
flushed, his eyes sparkling, his clothes wet and 
dripping. 

“ You have it ! ” exclaimed the baronet. 

“Yes, your honor, — but I am nearly dead, 
i Tie — that one — pursued me ; both boats were 
wrecked on the reef yonder. I swam ashore, 
he after me, — he clutched me just as I touched 
land. I stabbed him, and got off in the dark.” 

The baronet had scarcely listened. 

“ The paper ! ” he exclaimed. 


MYSTERY OF THE HEAD BODIES. 237 


Here it is, your honor.” 

And Wilde drew forth the leaf which he 
had stolen from the register, — the proof of Sij 
Murdaugh’s marriage with Marianne Earle. 






CHAPTER X. 

THE DEN OF THE WOLF. 

ILDE had accurately narrated what had 
taken place between himself and Earle. 

The sailor by almost superhuman ef- 
forts had succeeded in coming up with 
his opponent just as Wilde emerged half dead 
with cold and exhaustion from the blinding 
surf ; had grappled with him, intent alone on 
arresting his further progress; and the power- 
ful gamekeeper thus assailed by his mortal 
foe, had just strength enough to draw his knife 
and strike at Earle as the latter clutched him. 

The knife passed through the fleshy part of 
the sailor’s arm, and inflicted a painful w'ound. 

It was far from disabling him however, and 
it was the darkness alone which saved "Wilde. 

He tore away from Earle as he struck, push* 
( 238 ) 



THE DEN OF THE WOLF. 


239 


ing back bis opponent as be did so ; then, with 
a single bound, be disappeared in the gloom, 
running rapidly over the sandy shore, which 
gave back no sound, and enabled him to evade 
his pursuer. 

Earle had rushed after him, but all was in 
vain. AVilde had vanished, and no sound indi- 
cated the direction in which he had gone. In 
ten minutes the sailor gave up the pursuit, and 
stopped, panting and nearly exhausted from the 
blood which he had lost from his wound. 

He looked around him. All was dark. A 
few lights glimmered in the village of Oldport. 
He dared not venture there in his full uniform 
of a captain in the French navy ; and looking 
for the bark which had brought him, he could 
nowhere discover it. 

“ One thing only is left,” he muttered, — u to 
go to my mother.” 

And traversing the surge-lashed shore, along 
the edge of the water, he reached the narrow 
path running along the ledge of rocks — then 
that which wound up the preipice to the hut of 
the recluse. 

Ho one but a sailor, sure-footed and aceua- 
toned to work with hands ar.d feet in tie dark, 
could have found his way safely up the dizzy 


240 


THE DEN OF THE WOLF. 


path toward the summit. Mo/e thau once ho 
passed near the very brink of the precipice,* 
a step out of the pathway, would have hurled 
him a thousand feet down into the boiling 
abyss. Bat he went on safely. No chamois 
could have traversed the narrow way more * 
rapidly and surely. Soon he reached the last 
and most dangerous point ; passed it ; reached 
tiie summit, and hastened to the hut of the 
recluse. 

No light was visible. The spot seemed de- 
serted. 

Earle struck the door with his clenched hand 
It flew open, but within all was darkness and 
silence. 

He entered. A strange sinking of the heart 
suddenly assailed him. Where was his moth- 
er ? Why this darkness and silence, instead of 
her smile and warm greeting ? 

He went toward the narrow bed, and felt for 
his mother there. She might be asleep. 

The bed was vacant. The cold pillow was 
round and unpressed. * 

She was gone 1 

Earle sat down, faint in body and mind. A 
sombre foreboding siezed upon him. What was 
the origin of this absence ? 


THE DEN OF THE WOLF. 


241 


Suddenly lie rose with a hoarse cry. 

“ That man i — that wretch ! lie has proba- 
bly murdered her! lie has discovered lier! 
He came here, I no w remember, in search of 
me ! He sent to France to <*teal that proof of 
his marriage ! He has secured both obstacles 
to his new marriage, — the record, and the per- 
son of the first wife ! ” 

Earle pressed both hands to his forehead, and 
staggered. 

What should he do \ 

With weak and uncertain steps, but a will 
excitement in his breast, he tottered out of the 
hut, went toward the precipice, traversed the 
dizzy brink with the instinct of a blind man, de- 
scended the path, reached the shore, then, 
scarce knowing what he did, he staggered on 
toward the village. 

All at once there rose before him in the dark 
ness a weird-looking object. 

It was the hull of a wrecked vessel, turned 
upward anu fitted up as a rude dwelling. A 
ray of moonlight as red as blood enabled him 
to make out its surroundings. These were nets, 
an old anchor, a coil of rope, and an old buoy. 
The door was a hole scarce large enough for a 
man to crawl into. It was open no w, and Earle 
16 


242 


THE DEN OF THE WOLF. 


saw crouching over a few embers, a gigantic 



Something in this figure struck him as famil- 
iar. He tottered forward and looked in. The 
figure raised its head. By the glimmer of the 
embers Earle recognized Goliath. 

The next moment he staggered to the door 
way, uttered a low cry, and fell forward into 
the arms of the chief of the wolves, who had 
recognized him, and drew him into his rude 
dwelling, radiant with joy at his return. 
u You be come up out of the foam, master I * 
Earle tried to reply, but fainted. 



7 




CHAPTER XT 

KIDNAPPED. 

N an upper room of Westbrooke Hall, 
difficult of access, and almost unsuspect- 
ed, so carefully was it concealed by jut- 
ting gables and angles, sat the recluse 
whom we left in her hut on the headland, when 
Earle set out for Maverick House. 

Two days before, she had been kidnapped* 
This was very simply effected. The man 
Gubbs, in the absence of Wilde, the baronet’s 
factotum, undertook the affair, went thither af- 
ter midnight, simply seized and gagged the sol- 
itary woman, forced her to enter a light car- 
riage, and then drove off swiftly through wood- 
land by-roads to Westbrooke Hall, which they 
reached before daylight. 

The recluse was then conducted to the apart- 

' 343 ) 



214 


KIDNAPPED. 


ment which we have spoken of above ; the door 
was locked upon her ; she was left to her reflec 
tions ; and, whilst still engaged in this occupa- 
tion, Sir Murdaughhad entered. 

“Welcome to Westbrooke Ilall, your lady- 
ship ! ” was his ironical greeting. “ Can I do 
aught to render your sojourn here more agree- 
able ? If the servants exhibit any neglect, pray 
inform me of the fact, Charmed to see you, 
my dear madam, — really charmed, upon my 
word ! ” 

The recluse looked at him coldiy. There 
was not a particle of nervous trepidation in her 
expression. 

“ You do not reply, my lady. Pray honor 
me with a few words: your voice invariably 
charms me.” 

“ I do not reply because I have none to make, 
sir,” said the woman, with entire calmness. 
“What response is necessary to an outrage 
like this?” 

“ An outrage, madam ? ” 

“Is it not an outrage to send a wretch 
in your pay to seize an unprotected woman 
and to drag her off thus to a place of conceal- 
ment ? ” 

“ Well, it id irregular.” 


KIDNAPPED. 


245 


The baronet grinned and was evidently enjoy 
ing himself. 

“Your object?” 

“ Well, shall I be frank with you, madam I % 

“ If you can.” 

“Shall I tell you my first plan, or my 

second ? ” 

“ Speak I” 

“First, I thought I would — well, would — 
murder you, my dear madam. That is an ugly 
word, but you may retort that it suits me. Per- 
haps it does. I am not a beauty, and my life, 
tried by a strictly moral standard, may not be 
beautiful morally. Yes 1 1 thought I would get 
rid of you.” 

“Why have you not done so, then?” was the 
cold inquiry. 

The baronet’s face grew dark. 

“ It is not too late,” he said in a threatening 
tone ; “ beware how you defy me.” 

“ Defy you ? Do you suppose I am afraid of 
you? No! do as you will. Yes! I do defy 
you.” 

And the woman rose to her full height. 

“I never feared you,” she said, looking at 
him with superb scorn in her eyes. “I fled 
from yon to rescue a child from your poisonous 


240 


KIDNAPPED. 


association. That child is safe from you now 
You cannot harm him, for he knows you. As 
to me, what care /, think you ? Nothing.” 

And she sat down again. 

The baronet scowled at her with sudden 
wrath. Then this changed to a sneer. 

“ Good, good ! ” he said ; “ the same spirit that 
used to blaze out in Marianne Earle, twenty 
years ago. Ah ! you look at me with your 
fine disdain. You would say that I provoked 
you then. Well, so be it; let that go. I am 
here to speak of the present and future — your 
future. I will do so very briefly, madam. I 
brought you here intending to get rid of you, if 
necessary. It is not necessary. I will simply 
send you to St. Domingo. My good servitor, 
Wilde, who is known to you, will accompany 
your ladyship. He is absent now on important 
business, but will soon return. Then I will call 
on madam again.” 

And sneering, he wen 1 : out abruptly. 



CHAPTER XIL 

MASTER AND MAN. 

UCH were the events which had occurred 
during the brief absence of Earle and 
Wilde. 

We left the baronet and this latter 
worthy in the apartment containing the corpse, 
the eyes of Sir Murdaugh fixed joyfully on the 
paper which Wilde had brought him. 

“At last I have it,” he exclaimed. “From 
this moment I am safe.” 

Wilde glanced sidewise at the man, GuDbs 
and the baronet nodded. jf 

“You can go now,” he said to the man, who 
at once left the apartment. 

“And now to business, Wilde,” added the 
baronet. “Much has been done in your ab- 
sence.” 

C347) 



248 


MASTER AND MAN, 


% i 

“What, your honor ? ” 

“ That woman is here, a prisoner in this house 
But, before I speak further of this, tell me ah 
about your journey.” 

“ That I will do in few words, sir.” 

And Wilde narrated every thing, concluding 
with the scene which had occurred on the beach. 

“That man is an incarnate devil,” growled 
the baronet. “ He is ever on my track. Not 
content with denouncing me as a murderer, he 
is now here again to thwart and endanger me.” 

“ There is but one thing left your honor,” said 
Wilde in a low tone. 

The baronet looked at him intently. 

“ I understand you — yes,” he said. 

Compact of murder was never made more 
clearly in fewer words. But the baronet 
seemed determined that there should be no 
doubt whatever. 

“ That man must die, Wilde ; no mincing of 
words. We have gone too far to recede.” 

The words were uttered in a whisper. 

“ The thing is plain, sir,” was the reply in tho 
same tone ; “ while he is alive, you are in dan- 
ger, to say nothing of me, I don’t intend to 
rest. Give your orders, sir. They shall he 
obeyed.” 


MASTER AND MAN. 


249 


The baronet sat down, and gazed at the floor. 

“Where is he?” he said suddenly; “since 
you stabbed him, he must be near Oldport. 
Was the wound dangerous ? ” 

“ Only in the flesh of the arm.” 

“That is nothing! Act promptly. Go and 
look for him to-night! This is all the more 
neeessary, as he will come quickly to look for 
us!” 

“ I understand, sir.” 

“ She is here ! He will be on our track, 
since he must suspect me of the abduction.” 

Wilde buttoned up his wet coat. 

“ I will take Gubbs, and hunt him to-night, 
sir.” 

“ Do so, and return before daylight. Things 
are hurrying in many ways, Wilde. Listen ! I 
am to be married in eight days. In three days 
that woman must be out of England. If in 
twenty-four hours he i3 dead we are safe, and 
you will have earned one thousand pounds, li 
he lives — the gallows — ! I am rich and in- 
fluential, and may escape. You are poor and 
nobody — you. will hang! Go, now! You 
may And him in some corner, fainting and 
weak from loss of blood. You are a man of 
decision ; you will not neglect that chance. 


250 


MASTER AND MAN \ 


Go, go ! His death secures everything. Whilst 
he lives, — listen, Wilde, — the halter is around 
your neck ! ” 

“ And yours ! ” muttered the Hercules as he 
hastened from the apartment. 




CHAPTER XHL 

A TIGRESS. 

S Wilde disappeared, tlie baronet fixed 
liis eyes with avidity upon the paper in 
his hand. 

“ The actual entry ! ” he muttered ; 
“ Murdaugh Westbrooke to Marianne Earle 
Martigny, April 17 — , signed by Father Am- 
brose; all in due form ! Decidedly, Wilde is a 
cool hand, and has effected all I hoped foi. 
Now to action ! But first to enjoy my little 
treat ! ” 

He went out quickly, and ascending the 
broad staircase, took a key from his pocket and 
opened a door. Before him, in a bare apart- 
ment, sat the recluse, pale but calm. 

“I have come to call on you, madam,” he 
said, grinning. 

C251I 



252 


A TIGRESS . 


The recluse coldly inclined her head. 

“ I have an interesting communication to 
make, madam.” 

The recluse gazed at him intently, but made 
no reply. 

•‘Your ladyship is silent this evening, but 
no matter. I will talk myself. And first, I 
beg to call your ladyship’s attention to the 
fact that this is the record of our marriage in 
the tillage of Martigny — brought for my 
private perusal by our mutual acquaintance, 
Mr. Wilde.” 

The baronet watched her closely. At these 
words she turned suddenly pale. 

“ Doubtless a copy, sir!” she said, coldly, 
but with a sudden, eager glance. 

The baronet burst out laughing. It was a 
sombre and ghastly sound. 

“ A copy ? By no means, madam. The orig- 
inal paper ! I was too intelligent to care for 
a copy. I wished to feast my eyes upon the 
sole and only evidence of our connubial 
bliss ! What cared I for a cojpy? What I 
wanted was the actual sheet from the record, 
signed by the priest : here it is ; and from this 
moment there is no proof whaterer of our mar 
riage.” 


A TIGRESS. 


253 


The recluse was pale, but her calmness had 
returned. 

“So you are bent on destroying all proof 
that I am Lady Westbrooke ? ” 

The baronet bowed and said ironically, — 

“ Madam is intelligent.” 

“ You design marrying again ? ” 

“ I do, madam.” 

“To commit bigamy ?” 

“ There is no bigamy where proof does not 
exist of a former marriage.” 

The recluse made no reply. With her eyes 
fixed intently upon the baronet, she seemed to 
listen coldly. 

“ Why make so much ado, my dear madam,” 
he said, with a sombre grin. “ Are we so much 
devoted to each other that we cannot bear to 
ignore that former union ? Was it of hearts — 
or hands only ? I think it was merely the hand 
Well, I count that a sin. I design to unite my- 
self now to a young creature who loves me ? ” 

Iso reply came from the recluse. The bar 
onet went on : — 

“ Shall I tell you of my little affair ? The 
fair one is called Ellinor Maverick. She is ex- 
ceedingly handsome — much more handsome, 
I must say, than you ever were ; and she marriei 


254 


A TIGRESS . 


me in defiance of the whole respectable Maver 
ick family.” 

The recluse had never removed her eyes 
from the face of the baronet. 

“ Does she know that you have one wife liv 
ing ? ” she said, calmly. 

The words brought to the baronet’s face the 
eternal grin. 

“I must confess she does not, madam! 
She is a tender lamb led to the slaughter. I 
am a monster, you perhaps think, and I confess 
I am not a saint. Bnt in this case the lamb is 
tough ! Miss Maverick weds me for my estate, 
not from the sympathetic impulse of her maiden 
heart ! She calculates — she does not gush 
out ! I am Sir Ten Thousand a Year, rather 
than Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke ; and a few 
little charges which have been brought against 
me have had no influence on the sweet charmer 
— she is still determined to marry me.” 

“ And you will ruin this young woman be- 
cause she is worldly and ambitious ? ” 

“ Ruin her, madam ? not at all ? How shall 
I ruin her ? ” 

The recluse pointed coldly toward the paper 
in his hand. 

“ Still harping upon this ! ” the baronet said 


A TIGRESS . 


255 


with a grin. “ I will show you how I remove 
that little difficulty in the simplest manner, 
madam ? ” 

lie caught the paper with both hands, and 
was about to tear it in pieces. 

“ Forbear ! ” cried the recluse, suddenly ris- 
ing and confronting him. 

“ Forbear what?” he growled. 

“From the commission of the crime you 
meditate ! ” his companion said, with flushed 
cheeks. “ It is your souPs salvation you im- 
peril ! I do not speak of the offence against 
law ! Think, unhappy old man ! — for you 
are old now, as I am, — think, God has for- 
bidden this. You sin wilfully against his com- 
mandments ! Stop now, on the threshold ! — 
repent ! — a poor sinner urges that ! Abandon 
this scheme ! — remember that your lawful 
wife still lives! — Give me the paper!” 

And before he divined her intention, she 
grasped the paper and tore it from him 

The baronet uttered an enraged cry and 
said, — 

“ Beware ! — give me back that writing ! ” 

“ It is mine equally — since it is the record 
of my marriage ! ” she exclaimed, recoiling, and 
thrusting the paper into her bosom. 


256 


A TIGRESS. 


“Give me the writing!” 

And lie seized her by the wrist, with a 
grasp of iron. 

“ Release me, sir ! ” 

“ Give me the paper I ” 

“ I will not!” 

lie seized her by the throat. 

“ The paper — or you are dead ! ” 

The hand grasped the white throat more 
furiously. 

“ Kill me, then ! — you may take it from my 
dead body — I will never surrender it ! ” 

He tore open her dress, and drew the paper 
from its hiding-place. 

“Coward!” she exclaimed, as he did so; 
“ wretch, to outrage me thus ! — to lay the 
hand of violence where you once laid your 
head ! Oh ! I could tear the very flesh 
which was so profaned once ! — coward I ” 
And with flaming eyes she confronted him, 
— eyes full of superb wrath. 

“Insult, outrage, murder me if you will!” 
she cried, in her rage and scorn. “ There ig 
one person who is safe from you — your 
child! — whom you aimed to murder! un- 
natural and monstrous ! Of what race do you 


A TIGRESS . 


257 


come ? You would slay your own child ! — 
but he at least is safe from you ! ” 

The baronet had retreated a step as she con- 
fronted him with blazing eyes. In spite of 
himself, he shrunk before the scorn of his 
companion. Now, however, his sneer returned 

— the ghastly grin distorted his ugly mouth. 

“ Ah ! you think that whelp is safe, do you, 
madam ? You are mistaken. Wilde stabbed 
him to-night I ” 

“ You lie — he is in France ! * 

“I do not lie, madam — he is in Pem- 
brokeshire.” 

The woman looked at him; as she did so 
the flush died out of her cheeks. 

“ Where is he ? ” 

“ I will not tell you ! ” 

She trembled. 

“ For pity’s sake ! ” 

And suddenly submissive she clasped hei 
hands. 

“Do not harm him I He has not wronged 
you ! Why do you thus hate him ? ” 

“ Because he hates me, and will destroy me 

— if I do not destroy him ! Cease your prayers, 
then — they are vain ! His doom is sealed - 
Wilde is now tracking him ! ” 

17 


A TIGRESS. 


u That wretch ? Oh, it is infamous ! Ha 
will murder him ! Let me go and save him I ” 
The baronet thrust her back violently, and 
went toward the door. 

u It is too late ! he is doomed ! ” 

And he reached the door and opened it. 
Suddenly the woman threw herself upon 
him, and seized his throat with both hands. 

“ Give me my child ! ” she cried, with the 
rage of a tigress robbed of her young. 

His reply was to hurl her from him, and she 
fell at full length on the floor. A moment 
afterwards the baronet had passed through the 
door and closed and locked it. 

As the key turned in the lock, the dooi 
shook under the grasp of the poor mother. 

“ My child ! my child I Give me my child ! ” 
she moaned, shaking the door. 

A laugh replied ; and the baronet’s footsteps 
receded. A moment afterwards a body feL 
heavily in the apartment which he had left 
The recluse had fainted. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

THE INTRUDER. 

IR MURDAUGH WESTBROOKE de- 
scended to his sitting-room. 

The grin had disappeared from his 
lips and there was no longer the former 
expression of hideous triumph in his eyes. 

He sat down, and gazed for fully a quarter of 
an hour into the fire, which was dying down 
now. 

“ How will this end ? ” he muttered. “ I am 
knee-deep in blood, and am going in waist 
deep! Am I then a wretch unable to with- 
hold myself from crime? Why do I venture 
on this marriage. Why do I plan that boy’s 
destruction? Is the Devil my prompter? 
Doubtless, since he has just made me outiug* 

( 259 ) 



260 


THE INTRULKR. 


a woman —cut her to the heart — inflict pel 
sonal violence upon her ! ” 

lie knit his brow, and his lips writhed. 

“ I am a lost soul, I tliink 1 ” 

And he rose to his feet. 

“ She cowed me yonder to-night when — yes, 
was a coward to outrage that bosom ! It was 
Marianne Earle’s once — I loved her — have 
never loved any one else I Yes, yes, 1 was a 
coward ! And I aim to prove myself a worse 
coward still ! ” 

He looked at the paper which he held in his 
hand. “Marianne Earle, Martigny, April 17, 
,” seemed burnt in flame upon it. 

“ She was beautiful then ! — the only dream 
of my life ! ” he muttered. I loved her — could 
have died for her — for six months!” he added, 
with a cruel sneer. 

And leaning against the tall carved mantel- 
piece, he pondered, his face gradually growing 
dark. 

“ Ho ! it is too late to recede — and to defy 
that hoy Arthur is delicious I This marriage is 
necessary — it removes suspicion ! It ties theii 
hands, for I will be the husband of Ellinor Mav- 
erick, their own blood ! Then — then, with 
this woman and that other enemy gotten rid of 


THE INTRUDER. 


261 


— with no fears any longer, and the failing 
health of the Yiscount Cecil to count on * ! ” 

He slowly tore the paper in pieces and threw 
it into the fire. 

“ The die is cast ! ” he muttered ; “ my senti- 
mental mood is over ! Sentiment for me ! I 
was an innocent man once, i »w 1 am what \ 
What have I to do with sentiment ? Can the 
wolf that is hunted find time to snivel and wipe 
his eyes ? Away with such imbecility ! I am 
a man again, and will ride over all enemies. 
Aid me, Devil ! if there be a Devil ! ” 

And, with a face distorted into a hideous grin, 
the baronet took from the table the only light 
in the apartment, slowly crossed the drawing 
room, opened and passed through the door, 
and then his steps were he&rd slowly ascending 
the staircase. 

Ten minutes after his disappearance, a slight 
sound might have been heard at the rear win- 
dow. 

This window opened, as the reader will 
remember, directly on the park ; and for more 
than a half an hour a man standing on the 
ledge beneath it had been watching the baronet, 
bis eyes on a level with the window-sill. 

As the figure of the baronet disappeared new 


262 


THE INTRUDER. 


a dusky arm suddenly rose from without. As 
the arm rose, the moon came out, and revealod a 
man’s head and shoulders above the sill. Then 
the hand stealthily passed through a broken 
pane in the window — the bolt was silently shot 
back — a moment afterwards the sash was 
raised — and, silent as a shadow, the man stood 
in the room. 

It was the gypsy : his countenance expressed 
mingled curiosity and apprehension. The 
swarthy face was plain in a vagrant gleam from 
the dying fire, and toward the fire he now moved 
with a cautious and stealthy step. 

“ That paper ! — why did he look at it so 
closely — and then tear it?” muttered the 
gypsy. “ I see it is not burned — only one of the 
pieces is destroyed ! 

He stooped and raised the fragments, joining 
them together, and closely scanning them. 

“ Murdaugh Westbrooke — Marianne Earle; 
Martigny. Why this is a marriage record ! ” he 
murmured. “ And to think that the good Sir 
Murdaugh has already been married ! ” 

He looked again at the paper. The name of 
the woman seemed to strike him for the first 
time. 

“Marianne Earle!” he said, knitting his 


THE INTRUDER, 


268 


brows, and evidently lost in reflection, “ Mari- 
anne Earle! Earle! — there is some mystery 
here!” 

And his quick mind went back to his associa- 
tion with the sailor. Twice he had heard Earle 
repeat his own name, — once when carrying off 
the viscount, in reply to a question from the 
nobleman, and again during the interview with 
Arthur Maverick on the night of his escape. 

“ Earle ! ” he muttered ; “ this baronet married 
Marianne Earle, then ! Who was she ? was she 
related to him — my brother of the Rommanye 
Rye?” 

His eyes distended suddenly. The vaga- 
bond’s enormous acuteness had placed him on 
the track of the mystery. The woman on the 
headland was Earle’s mother. He had divined 
that when he went to warn Earle on that last 
night of his stay in Pembrokeshire. 

“Aha! Here is something!” he muttered. 
“ It will pay better even than my knowledge of 
the murderer of Giles Maverick ! I am lucky ! 
I came for the baronet’s silver: I find out 
something far more valuable than silver, 1 
think.” 

And folding up the pieces of paper, he 
placed them carefully in his ragged pocket. 


264 


THE INTRUDER. 


1 ien he looked around warily. There waa 
do silver of any description visible. 

“ The skinflint ! ” he muttered, with a grim- 
ace; “not to leave a spoon, even, for a poor 

gypsy!” 

With stealthy steps he went toward the door 
which opened on the hall. Not a sound was 
heard in the funereal mansion but the measured 
ticking of an enormous clock, which rose, ghost- 
like, in the corner of the hall. 

“ Shall I venture farther ? It is dangerous, 
but I will try it. I may find something,” he 
muttered. 

The gypsy placed his foot upon the staircase. 
In the darkness he had not seen the door lead- 
ing into the room containing the corpse. The 
terrible odor, however, filled the air, and for an 
instant his heart failed him. 

“What devilish smell is that?” he mur- 
mured. “ I had best get out of this place.” 

He turned to go back, but at that moment a 
stifled groan reached his ears. It died away, 
then was repetead, then died away again. 

The gypsy was even more curious, by nature, 
than cautious of his personal safety. The 
muffled sounds roused his curiosity to the 
highest pitch. 


THE INTRUDER, 


265 


“ Something horrible is going 01. here I ” he 
said, in a low voice. “ Shall I try to find what 
it means? I can gain the window again in 
two minutes, and neither Wilde nor his hounds 
are here to follow me ! ” 

He placed his foot once more on the stair: 
the solid oak did not creak. The second step 
was as firm ; and, rapid and noiseless as a cat, 
the gypsy reached the second floor. 

As he did so the groans were again heard, 
apparently from an apartment at the end of a 
dark side passage. The moonlight half-illu- 
mined the corridor ; he stealthily glided toward 
the sound. 

It grew plainer as he advanced. He reached 
the door from behind which it issued, and, 
stooping down, applied his eye to the keyhole in 
which the key had been left. 

What he saw made him hold his breath for 
a moment. 

A woman, clad in a dark dress, was kneeling 
and praying, with clasped hands, and eyes 
raised to heaven. A ray of moonlight fell 
upon her face. The gypsy recognized the 
mother of Earle. 

For a moment his heart stood still. A vague 
idea of the truth came to him. The woman 


266 


THE INTRUDER. 


was a prisoner — Earle’s mother. Was she the 
Marianne Earle of the marriage record ? 

The gypsy’s face flushed hot, and, turning his 
head, he listened. The stifled groans were only 
heard as the poor woman prayed. 

“Now, or never, if I mean to act as his 
friend ! ” he said to himself. 

And silently unlocking the door, he stood be- 
fore the woman. 

She uttered a low exclamation, and shrunk 
back as he approached. 

“ Hush ! ” he whispered, “ I am a friend, — I 
will take you to your son. Listen ! His name is 
Edmond Earle. It was I who came to warn 
him, you remember, of the baronet’s pursuit of 
him. I understand all. You are a prisoner 
here. Come witli me and make no noise.” 

She had listened with a nervous tremor in 
her frame, but this suddenly ceased. 

“ Yes, yes, I feel that you are a friend. Let 
us hasten to leave this place.” 

“ Come, then ! ” 

And the gypsy rapidly led the way from the 
room to the corridor. 

“ Make haste now I ” he whispered. “ The 
baronet has not yet retired. There is his cham* 


THE INTRUDER. 


267 


ber. See the glimmer of the light through the 
keyhole ! ” 

Suddenly the voice of the baronet cried,— 

“ Who is there ? Who is stirring ? ” 

u Run ! Make haste down the stairs ! ' f ex- 
claimed the gypsy. 

And he pushed the woman toward the stair- 
case. 

Her foot had scarce touched the top step 
when Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke’s door opened 
violently. 

“ Who is there ? ” he shouted, raising a heavy 
pistol, cocked and ready. 

The gypsy’s reply was prompt. He threw 
himself upon the baronet and hurled him 
back, knocking up the weapon just as the re- 
port of the pistol rang out. 

A moment afterwards he had wrenched it 
from the baronet, and dealt him a heavy blow 
m the face. Then he gained the door at 
one bound ; closed it violently and turned the 
key in the lock ; hastily descended the stairs ; 
and taking the woman by the arm, drew her 
quickly to the window, through which he as- 
sisted her to pass, just as the sleepy and 
frightened servants rushed in tc find the mean 
ing of the pistol-shot 


268 


THE INTRUDER. 


Once in the park, the gypsy cried* — 

“To the woods! to the woods!” 

“But my son! where is my son!” 

“ He is in France.” 

“ God be thanked ! ” she exclaimed. “ Then 
that wretch wilfully lied ! He is safe ! Then 
all is well.” 

And she followed the gypsy, who hastened 
on. 

In ten minutes the shadows of the forest 
had swallowed the two figures. 




CHAPTER XV. 

THE RIFLED GRAVE. 

E left Earle in the den of the chief of 
the wolves. 

“You be come up out of the foam, 
master ! ” the gigantic Goliath had ex- 
claimed ; whereupon, overcome by weakness 
from the wound in his arm, and exhaustion, 
Earle had fainted. 

When he opened his eyes the giant was 
bending over and bandaging his arm. Ho 
performed this office with rough tenderness, 
and as the young man looked up, said, in gut- 
tural tones, — 

“You be safe here, master ! ” 

“ Ah I ” murmured Earle. 

“You be French — the flag you run out 
wnen they fired on you told that; but French 

( 269 ) 



270 


THE RIFLED GRAVE. 


or no French, you be a wolf, and you be safe 
here.” 

Earle quietly extended his hand and grasped 
the huge paw of the wolf. 

“ Thanks ! ” he said. “ Yes, I need a refuge, 
and your help I ” 

“ My help?” 

“The help of the wolves, perchance — the 
whole fraternity. I will tell you more of that.” 

And rising slowly to his feet, he looked 
through the low port-hole serving as a window, 
and said, — 

“ Is it near daylight, brother ? ” 

The reply of the wolf was, that it was scarce 
midnight. 

“ Then I will sleep : wake me at daylight I ” 
said Earle. 

And stretching himself before the fire, he 
fell asleep almost instantly. 

The giant gazed at him for some moments 
with a strange expression of solicitude on his 
face; sat down on a rough stool, having first 
hung an old blanket before the door; and 
soon the nods of his huge head indicated that 
he too slumbered. 

It was long hours after midnight, when all 
at once the gigantic Goliath stirred and mut> 


THE RJFLEJ) JRAVE, 


271 


tered in his sleep. The vague sense ctf im- 
pending peril seemed to render him uneasy. 

Suddenly the influence appeared to niastei 
him, and he lose quickly, and went to the door. 

As he did so, two shadows which had hov- 
ered near the port-hole window, shrunk back 
into the darkness behind the overturned hull, 
and all was quiet. 

Goliath muttered some guttural words, shook 
his head, and returned to his stool. With a 
glance at Earle, on whose face the glimmering 
light of the embers fell, he kicked the brands 
together, wrapped an old pea-jacket around 
him, and in a few minutes was nodding, sound 
asleep, beside his companion. 

For half an hour nearly, the silence remained 
unbroken save by the whistle of the wind, 
and the long roll of the surf, falling with 
monotonous beat upon the sands. Then cautious 
steps might have been heard — two figures em- 
erged from the shadows of the hull, and one of 
these figures, placir g his eye at a crevice, mut- 
tered, — 

“ It is our man I n 

For more than a minute he remained silent 
and motionless, with his hand extended warn 
ingly toward hia companion behind him. 


272 


THE Rib LED GRAVE. 


Then he drew a pistol from his breast, aud 
directed the muzzle toward Earle. 

His companion pulled him back almost vi<> 
lently. 

“ You will get yourself and me killed 1 ” he 
said, in a hurried whisper. 

“ Killed ? ” said the man, impatiently. 

a The wolves will swarm at the sound of 
your shot ! ” 

And Gubbs — for it was that worthy — looked 
at Wilde with horror-struck eyes. 

“ You don’t know ’em — the wolves,” added 
Gubbs, in the same hurried whisper. “ They 
sleep with one eye open ; and this man is one 
of them, you know, Wilde.” 

“ Yes, curse him ! ” growled Wilde, lowering 
his pistol, “ you are right.” 

Goliath started and rose to his feet. 

“ I swear I heard something,” he cried, draw- 
ing a long knife. 

The movement was followed by the mmis- 
takable sound of steps retreating rapidly. Go-' 
liath rushed from the hut; but only in time to 
see two shadows disappear behind some bushes. 

He darted on their track ; reached the bushes, 
and stopped to listen for a moment — not a 
sound. The mysterious figures had vanished, 


THE RIFLED GRAVE, 


273 


and with muttered imprecations Goliath turned 
back. 

He saw Earle coming to meet him. 

“ What is the matter, brother \ ” said the sail nr. 

In a few words, Goliath informed him of this 
incident. 

Earle reflected with a knit brow, for an in- 
stant. 

“ Those men were sent here to murder me, 
brother,” he said, “ but their hearts failed them ; 
we are safe at present. Now for other matters. 
Is it near day ? ” 

The giant pointed to a yellow streak in the 
east. 

Earle nodded. 

“ Come, then, brother. A sailor’s first thought 
is of his craft. I wish to mount that height 
yonder, and look out for the sail-boat that 
brought me last night.” 

“ Eight, master ! You be a sailor true. If 
she be wrecked — ” 

“ I shall see her. If she rode through the 
storm, I shall see her.’ 

And he led the way toward the height. 

“ When that is done, we will talk, brother,” 
he said, walking slowly and painfully. “ See, 
we mount ! we will soon arrive. 

18 


27 * 


THE RIFLED GRAVE. 


And he went on, followed by Goliath, and 
finally reached the summit of the height. 

It was the wild and lonely spot used as a 
place of sepulture for the dead wolves. The 
/ough wall of piled-up rock was clearly seen in 
the gray light of dawn ; and mounting to the 
top, Earle gazed out on the channel, from which 
the mists were slowly rising. As he did so, the 
sun rose, and the curtain of vapor was swept 
away as if by enchantment. 

The sailor uttered an exclamation. 

“ Look ! there she is, brother ; she is making 
for the coast of France.” 

In fact the sail-boat, which had brought 
Earle, known easily by her peculiar rigging, 
was seen scudding before a fresh breeze in the 
offing, toward the south. 

The gigantic Goliath had heard the excla- 
mation of his companion, but had made no 
reply. 

Earle looked round. Goliath was crouching 
over the rifled grave of the wolf whom he had 
assisted in burying. 

“ What is the matter, brother ? ” said Earle. 

Goliath uttered the growl of a wild animal, 
ana seized a board which protruded from the 
hastily filled grave. 


THE RIFLED GRAVE . 


275 


“ This be the matter, master,” he muttered in 
a low and fierce tone. 

And exerting his herculean strength, he 
dragged the entire end of the coffin from the 
grave. It was empty. 

“Look!” said the wolf. “ We buried him, 
and his grave be robbed.” 

As he spoke, he bounded toward the wall, 
A part of the shroud had been torn torn off by 
a sharp fragment. 

“ They went this way,” he growled. 

And following the foot-prints rapidly, he 
reached the spot where the wagon had waited. 
Here the footprints stopped, and nothing was 
left but to follow the marks of the wheels, and 
the horse’s feet. 

These led towards Westbrooke Hall, and Go 
liath was about to hasten in the direction thus 
indicated, when the hand of Earle was laid on 
his shoulder, and the sailor said, — 

u A moment, brother.” 

1 The giant turned impatiently. 

“ I be on the track — woe, to the man who 
disturbed a wolf.” 

“ I can help you,” said Earle. 

u You, master ? ” 

H By leading you to the body.” 


276 


THE RIFLED GRAVE. 


"You?” 

“ My interest is to do so. I myself need the 
help of the wolves.” 

“ For what, master ? ” 

u To attack Westbrooke Ilall, where my 
mother is a prisoner ; to release her at the same 
moment when you recapture our dead brother 5 ! 
body.” 

The wolf started back, in astonishment. 

“ At Westbrooke Hall ? ” he exclaimed. 

“ Yes ! — my mother, and all that is left of 
our dead brother, who has been carried off ! 
Come, no time is to be lost ! I am a wolf ! — 
I make the signal! — to my help, wolves! to my 
help!” 

“ That is enough, master ! ” 

And they hurried down the steep pathway, 
toward the haunts of the wolves. 




CHAPTER XYL 

THE ATTACK OF THE WOLVES. 

T an hour past noon on the same day 
which witnessed the discovery of the 
rifled grave, a singular scene took place 
at Westbrooke Hall. 

Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke was pacing up 
and down his library, with hurried steps, — his 
face bruised, and swollen, his eyes glaring with 
rage, when suddenly there came to his ears a 
strange sound from the park without, — the 
sound of furious shouts, hurrying feet, and that 
muffled and threatening hum, which rises from 
a mass of men bent upon mischief. 

At that sound, the baronet suddenly stopped, 
and turned his head. 

“ What is that?” he muttered, with an ex- 
pression of rage and apprehension mingled. 

( 277 ) 



278 


ATTACK OF THE WOLVES. 


He hastened to the wind; w. The spectacle 
which saluted him made him recoil. 

In front of the hall was a confused and 
furious crowd of outlandish figures, — ragged, 
with glaring eyes, fierce grins, brandished arms, 
— who were hurrying towards the great door, 
shouting ferociously as they came ; and in front 
of them, beside the enormous Goliath, who led 
the attack, the baronet recognized the pale face 
of Earle, who wore his full uniform. 

“What devil has brought these wretches to 
attack and perhaps sack my house ? ” cried the 
baronet. 

Suddenly his face grew pale. 

“ Has she found him and told him all, and 
has he come to murder me ? ” 

He rushed to the door, and violently called 
out, — 

“ Wilde I ” 

The man had his hand on the door as the 
baronet opened it. He was trembling. 

“Mount and ride to the revenue station, 
W ilde ! S ay I am attacked by these assassins — 
the wolves ! Kill my best horse, if neccessary ! 
Ride, and come back with the guard at a 
gallop ! n 

Wilde ran from the library, and disappeared 


ATTACK OF THE WOLVES. 


279 


at a side door. The baronet hastened to the 
front door of the mansion, where a lond knock- 
ing was heard. 

“ Open I ” cried twenty voices. 

And the door shook under the pressure of 
huge shoulders. 

The baronet replied by drawing a massive 
chain across the door, and dropping a heavy bar. 
The door was already locked — it was thus 
triply guarded. 

u Open ! ” howled the wolves. 

“ Who are you ? ” cried the baronet. 

“ Open the door ! or — ” 

A tremendous rush was made at the oak. 

“ I warn you to desist ! ” shouted the bar- 
onet, in a hoarse and trembling voice. “ Who 
comes to invade the privacy — and violate 
the — ” 

A howl drowned the rest of the sentence. 

“ I am a magistrate ! ” 

“ Open ! ” 

“ This is a felony ! ” 

The door cracked. 

“I have sent for the revenue guard. Be- 
ware I Disperse, before they charge and fire 
on you ! y 

As he spoke, the wolves, in one huge mass 


280 


ATTACK OF THE WOLVES. 


of shoulders, backs, and arms, rushed aga.’nst 
the door. 

It gave way, the bar snapped, the chain waa 
tom from its fastenings, the lock was shattered ; 
in a moment the wolves had poured in, irresist- 
ible as a surge of the ocean, and furious voices 
shouted, — 

“Our brother, where is the wolf, our 
brother ! ” 

Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke, staggered back, 
as pale as death and trembling in every limb. 

“The meaning of this violence?” he mut- 
tered. “ Who is your brother ? ” 

A howl answered him. 

He looked round, expecting every moment to 
be torn to pieces. His eye fell upon Earle, 
who, pale and still, was looking at him. 

“You too!” gasped the baronet, — “what 
brings you ? ” 

“ Where is my mother ? ” 

The baronet grew livid, and made no reply. 

“ Where is my mother, and the record of her 
marriage which you had stolen at Martigny ?” 

The young man’s face suddenly flushed 
Rage was gaining the mastery with him. 

“ I know nothing of her, or the record ! ” 

Earle’s teeth were heard grinding together 


ATTACK OF THE WOLVES. 


281 


“ Where is my mother, and that papei ] ” ho 
exclaimed, advancing as though about to throttle 
the baronet. “ Answer ! Dare to trifle with me, 
and, by heaven! though you be my father, I 
will slay you as I would slay a venemous rep- 
tile !” 

The baronet shrunk back, pale and trembling. 

At the same instant, a tremendous shout was 
heard. It issued from the side apartment, 
where the wolves had discovered the corpse, 
and they were seen now, pouring out, the 
corpse, in its shroud, borne on their brawny 
shoulders. 

“ Death ! death ! ” they cried hoarsely. 

And they rushed on the baronet. 

As he staggered back, a loud shout was heard 
without, and the clash of hooves. 

“ They are coming ! if I can gain a few min- 
utes ! ” muttered the baronet, as pale as death. 

And recoiling from the mad crowd, — 

tJ Beware how you outrage a magistrate ! ” ho 
gasped. 

The hoof -strokes came on like thunder, and 
men were heard leaping to the ground. 

“Wilde has met a party going the rounds, 
I am saved ! ” 

And the baronet broke from his enf iniea. 


282 


ATTACK OF THE WOLFES. 


As he did so, a party of the revenue guard 
entered the great doorway, with drawn pistols. 
At their head, tall and commanding, advanced 
the Viscount Cecil. 




CHAPTER XVII. 

THE NEW 8 FROM FRANCE. 

viscount entered the hall slowly, and 
1 1 his calm eyes surveyed the confused mass 
of wolves, without apparent emotion, 
g® “ What is the meaning of this out- 
rage ? ” he said ; “ and that corpse there — what 
does this mean ? ” 

The baronet hastened toward his kinsman. 

“ It means that I am attacked and outraged, 
is you were here, once ; and that wretch takes 
part again in the attack.” 

The viscount turned suddenly; at sight of 
Earle he could not conceal his surprise. 

“ You, sir ! ” he said ; “ is it possible that you 
are here and thus engaged ? ” 

“ It is possible, my ]ord, since you see me,” 
returned Earle, in a gloomy voice ; “ and as to 

(283) 


254 


THE NEWS FROM FRANCE. 


my errand, I am not ashamed of it — a mattei 
I will explain to yonr lordship.” 

“ It is well, sir,” returned the viscount, in a 
freezing tone. “Wonders never are to cease, 
then ; and life is a play ! I leave you in France, 
and come to England ; am riding out, and meet 
a guard going to protect this gentleman, and 
take command of it ; I reach the scene of the 
outrage, and lo ! — th^ Baron Delamere com- 
mands the insurgents — the terrible mob ! ” 

There was an imperceptible shade of irony, 
in the nobleman’s tones. One thing at least was 
plain — the outrage to the baronet did not vio- 
lently enrage him. 

“ And now a truce to all this,” he said. “ The 
cause of this outbreak? Why are these men 
here ? ” 

“ I will explain in one word, my lord ! ” said 
Earle. 

And he narrated every thing, connected with 
the robbery of the grave. 

“ Your lordship understands now,” he added, 
“ why these men are enraged. Sir Murdaugh 
Westbrooke has violated one of their most 
deeply rooted prejudices. They look tipon one 
of their fraternity, when dead, as sacred. Sir 
Murdaugh Westbrooke has violated the grav« 


THE NEWS FROM FRANCE . 


285 


of one of them, and the wolves rescue their dead 
brother, my lord ! ” 

The viscount coldly inclined his head. 

“ And the wolves are right ! ” he replied. 

He turned round to the guard. 

“Put up your weapons, and mount youi 
horses.” 

Then turning to the wolves, — 

“ Go home with your dead brother,” he said 
“ You know me, and will not disobey me. Re- 
bury that body. If I have power in Pembroke- 
shire, no others shall be thus outraged.” 

A hoarse murmur rose from the wolves ; but 
it was plain that they did not design resistance. 
In fact the Yiscount Cecil was as popular with 
them as Sir Murdaugh was unpopular; and at 
the word of the high dignitary and manorial 
lord they bowed their heads in submission. 

Goliath went out first, and as he passed before 
the viscc unt, doffed his seal-skin cap, and said, — 

“ You be right, my lord.” 

“ Go, and cease these outrages, Goliath. You 
are the master ! ” 

Goliath went out, overwhelmed with pride at 
this recognition. 

“ Come on, there 1 ” he growled to the fierce 
water-dogs, who were muttering hoarsely. 


288 


THE NEWS FROM FRANCE. 


At the word from their chief, they moved to* 
ward the door. On their shoulders they bore the 
corpse, and as the heavy feet struck the floor, 
the monotonous chant of the burial service rose. 

Then the wolves, no longer a mob, but in sol- 
emn procession, left Westbrooke Hall. 

Earle alone remained; his arms folded, his 
face pale and stern. He was clad in his full 
uniform, and as the baronet glanced at it, his 
swollen face was full of satisfaction. 

“ Well, the insurrection is quelled ; the mob 
has dispersed ! ” said the Yiscount Cecil, with 
covert irony. “ Pray what do you propose fur- 
ther, my good Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke?” 

The baronet bounded with rage nearly, at the 
ill-suppressed satire of the speaker’s tones. 

u I propose to arrest this person as a French 
spy, and have him hanged ! ” he shouted. 

“Arrest whom?” 

“ That wretch ! ” 

And he pointed with a furious gesture at 
Earle. 

“ Ah ! The Baron Delamere ! And as a 
French spy, do you say ?” 

“ As a spy ! whoever he may be.” 

“ You cannot, my dear Sir Murdaugh West- 
brooke.” 


THE NEWS FROM FRANCE . 


28T 


u Cannot ? ” 

ci For the very simplest reason in the world. 
Spies ply their trade only when two countries 
are at war. Now France and England have 
agreed on the preliminaries of a treaty of peace, 
hostilities are at an end ; and Monsieur le Baron 
Delamere, there, is on a visit simply to Wales.” 

He turned and bowed to Earle. 

“ When in France, I offered you the hospital- 
ities of Wentworth Castle, Monsieur le Baron,” 
he said : “ I beg you will do me the honor, now, 
to accept them.” 

Earle bowed low, but shook his head. Hia 
lips moved; he seemed vainly attempting to 
speak. 

“ What is the matter ? ” exclaimed the vis 
count, for the young man had grown suddenly 
white. 

“ Thanks, my lord,” came from the sailor, in 
a low weak voice ; u but I came hither to — I 
must — ” 

He tottered. 

The viscount hastened to him, and caught him 
as he was falling. 

“ My mother ! That paper ! ” 

And letting his head fall on his shoulder, suf- 
fused with blood, Earle lost consciousness. 


2S8 


THE NEWS FROM FRANCE. 


Fifteen minutes afterwards lie was in the 
Viscount Cecil’s chariot, which was rolling 
towards Wentworth Castle. The viscount had 
been riding out in it, when he met the party of 
guards, and had directed it to follow; he him 
self mounting the horse of one of his outriders. 

As Earle fainted, he bore him out. They en- 
tered the chariot, and it went on its way. 

Between the viscount and the baronet not 0 
single word had been exchanged. 

Bo the strange scene ended. 




CHAPTER XYIIL 

THE CRISIS. 

O sooner had the chariot disappeared with 
the viscount and Earle, than Sir Mur- 
daugh Westbrooke fell into a chair, and 
called, in a hoarse and broken voice, — 
“ Wilde!” 

The Hercules hastened to his master. He had 
kept in the background hitherto, but now ap- 
peared, like a bird of ill-omen swooping down 
on the field of conflict after the departure of the 
combatants. 

“ Wilde!” the baronet exclaimed, “ we must 
go to work; not a moment must be lost now. 
Where is that woman s v 

“ She must be in the woods somewhere, with 
that gypsy rascal, your honor,” growled the 
Hercules. 



19 


<m, 


990 


THE CRISIS. 


“ Search for her instantly, with Gubbs; she 
must be recaptured before she gives the alarm.” 

“ Yes, jour honor.” 

“ Then to work ; all is ready. In your absence 
every arrangement has been made. At the port 
of Roche, two or three leagues down the coast, 
the bark Fly-by-Night is moored, and the captain 
is in my pay. He will sail for St. Domingo, as 
soon as his passenger arrives. You understand ? 
He is paid five hundred pounds to conduct a 
mad woman to St. Domingo. The money will 
close his ears, her ravings will pass unheeded 
You will go with her, and see her beyond seas, 
when you will return and make your report to 
me. A thousand pounds will await you, Do 
you understand all now?” 

Wilde flushed with joy and cupidity. 

“ Yes, your honor ; at your honor’s orders.” 

“ But first to find her ! . to find her ! That 
cursed gypsy has overturned all my plans. Two 
things are necessary now, Wilde • let me talk 
plainly ; no ceremony is necessary with you. In 
a few days I am to be married, but before that 
day tvr ) things must be accomplished. This 
woman must be out of the country, and that 
man Earle must be — ” 

He stopped and looked at Wilde significantly 


THE CRISIS. 


m 

The eyes of master and man met. Their 
glances were dark and meaning. 

“ Yes, your honor." 

“ He knows all ; can send me and you to the 
gallows. She is the other obstacle : she can in- 
terpose, and forbid the bans on my marriage 
day. One course only is left. She must be 
sent away, and he — well, one thing only w.ll 
silence him.” 

And in a low voice he added, — 

“ You understand ? ” 

“ I understand,” growled Wilde. “ The woman 
first ; that is the pressing thing.” 

“Yes: go, now. Take the wagon. Find her, 
and send her to the ship with Gubbs. Then re- 
turn here ; I will give you my further orders.” 

Wilde grunted obedience and hurried from 
the room. 

“Things are hastening,” muttered the bar- 
onet, “ and all depends on prompt action. That 
cursed dead body that brought about all this 
^discovery, that led the wolves to attack me, and 
brought the viscount here, — would it had been 
sunk fathoms deep in the waters of the channel, 
ere I meddled with it. And then this cut ? Is 
there no danger?” 

He looked at his hand, punctured b> the knife 


THE CRISIS. 


292 

during the process of dissection. It was swollen 
and he had bandaged it carefully. 

“No: it is a trilie. I have more important 
matters to think of,” he said. 

And rising, he paced to and fro, his browsi' 
knit, his lips muttering. 

“ Well, all is touch and go now. A short 
time will decide all. If I can get her out of 
the country, and close his lips forever, then 
safety, security, a bonny bride, and triumph 
over my enemies. If I fail — but I’ll not think 
of that ; the thought is too horrible ! Now to 
make my toilet carefully and repair to lady 
Worsham’s. There my beautiful young bride 
awaits impatiently her devoted lover.” 

A sneer passed over his lips, and the yellow 
tusks were thrust out. 

A moment afterwards he had le*t the apa t 
ment. 



i 


CHAPTER XIX. 


THE PATH TO WENTWORTH CASTLE 

chariot containing Earle and the ^ is* 
nnt rolled on toward Wentworth Cas* 
a great feudal pile crowning an emi- 
nce above the channel, a few miles 
south of Oldport. 

The scene through which they passed was 
wild and full of majestic beauty. Dense forests 
covered the slopes of the great headlands to the 
right, and from the wall of dark evergreens on 
their left issued a mountain torrent, which 
rushed with a sound like thunder beneath a 
6tone bridge which spanned the gulf beneath. 

As the chariot reached this point, the castle 
was seen near at hand, raising its mighty walls 
above the foliage of its oaks. It was one of 
these old feudal piles like Caernarvon or Dal* 



204 PATH TO WENTWORTH CASTLE. 

bar don, which render Wales so attractive m the 
eyes of the historical antiquary. All around it 
brought hack the past and excited the imagina- 
tion. Even weak and burnt up with fever as he 
was, Earle seemed deeply impressed with the 
scene. 

“ I see you are struck with my old castle,’* 
said the viscount ; “ and it is a true relic of an- 
tiquity. Edward I. spent a night here, and his 
son, Edward II., came near being born here in 
stead of at Caernarvon. Even this stone bridge 
over the torrent dates back two hundred years.” 

Earl murmured something that was inaudi- 
ble. 

The viscount gazed at his pale face with at- 
tention. The dreamy eyes of the young man 
surveyed the bridge, the torrent, a path leading 
to it from the forest, and suddenly he said, in a 
ow voice, with a strange and startled look, — 

“ I have been here before ! ” 

The baronet looked at him curiously. 

“ You ? Well that is possible, sir. But doubt- 
less you recall the occasion ? ” 

“ 1 do not,” murmured Earle ; “ it is strange. 
But all is familiar to me.” 

He gazed around him with profound astx nish 
rnent depicted upon his flushed face. 


PATH TO WEXTWOk 7 T CASTLE . 


“ That path ! I know that path. Stay, my 
lord : there is a stone cross in the wood yonder.” 

And he pointed np the steep path. 

“ True ! What does this mean ? ” muttered the/* 
viscount. 

» 

“ I know not, my lord.” 

“ There is the cross 1 See, through the foli 
age. It is built above a well in the forest.” 

“ The Hart’s Well ? ” 

The nobleman started. 

“You astound me! Then you have really 
been here in the grounds of Wentworth Castle?” 

“ I know not. I am in a dream,” murmured 
Earle. “ Is there a previous existence ? I do 
not believe it ; but all here is familiar. I seem 
to have traversed that path but yesterday, and 
to have heard some one utter that name — the 
‘ Hart’s Well.’ ” 

He stopped, looking with amazement around 
him. 

“ Let us alight, if it please you, my lord.” 

“Alight?” 

“ I would ascend that path, and approach the 
figure in stone of an armed knight througli the 
louble row of evergreens 1 ” 

The viscount gazed at the speaker with un- 
bounded astonishment. 


296 PATH TO WENTWORTH CASTLE. 


“ The stone figure of the armed kriglitl die 
double row of evergreens !” he said, — “ then you 
have visited my house before. What mystery 
is concealed under all this, sir ? ” 

The nobleman’s tones had grown cold and 
formal. Was this unknown Frenchman some 
charlatan, then ? Had he acted a part in pre- 
tending that he had never visited Pembroke- 
shire before this autumn % 

“ Truly, something deeply mysterious, to my- 
self, at least, is under this strange recognition,” 
murmured Earle ; “ but will your lordship per- 
mit me to walk ? I am strong enough, I think. 
If my strength fails me, I will sit down and rest 
on the granite seat, with the Wentworth arms 
cut in the stone back of the bench.” 

The viscount gazed at him without speaking. 
Then he muttered, — 

“ I will discover the meaning of this l ” 
Without further words, he stopped the coach, 
and directed the watchman to proceed to the 
castle by the main carriage roaffi With Earle, 
he struck into the path, supporting the young 
man, who walked with difficulty, looking around 
him with strange curiosity as he advanced. 

Half-way up the height they came k % foun 
tain surmounted by a cross. 


PA TH TO WEN TWO/: TH V A TZ LE. 297 


“ Here is the well I have often drunk from,” 
murmured Earle, pale and faint. 

And he walked on, with the same dreamy 
and vacant expression in his eyes. 

All at once the viscount felt him stagger. 

“ You are faint 1 ” he exclaimed. 

“ It is — nothing, my lord. Let us go on, 
If I am weary, I will rest on the stone bench. 
See, it is yonder, with the Wentworth arms.” 

And he tottered forward to the broad seat, 
upon which he fell, half exhausted. 

The viscount no longer said anything. Sur- 
prise seemed to have rendered him speechless. 

Earle rose after resting for some moments. 

“ I am — weak — to-day. My wound has 
drained my blood, he murmured. “But we 
will soon reach home now ; there are the two 
rows of evergreens. And look, there is the 
armed knight ; the stone is discolored since I 
was here last.” 

He went on, unaware that the viscount guided 
his steps, and kept him from falling. 

“ The old firs ! How well I remember them 
There is the one that had an eagle’s nest in it ! ” 

The viscount was speechless. The sailor was 
recalling things which he himself remembered 
clearly. 


29 S PA ?H TO WENTWORTH CASTLE. 


They passed through the double row of ever 
greens toward the huge pile. 

“ Here is the knight ! One of his spurs used 
to he broken, and I found and played with it 
one day ! ” 

The viscount turned pale, and glanced at 
the statue, which rose from a massive block of 
granite, in a grass-plat. One of the spurs had 
been broken off — he had never observed it be- 
fore. 

He looked at Earle with distended eyes. 
Something strange seemed going on in the 
young man. 

“ Why, there is home ! v he exclaimed ; “ one 
half the great door is open, as always ! Is the 
picture grasping the battle-axe, hanging on the 
right of the door? And the lady with the 
blue mantle nearly opposite — is she there? 
And the fountain, in the small court, with the 
water spouting from the tritons ? ” 

Earle staggered, and a mist seemed to pass 
before his eyes. He turned fahitly toward the 
discount. 

“ What — does — this — mean ? Where am 
I ? Why, this is home ! — home ! — home ! ” 

And he fainted in the arms of the viscount, 
who was near fainting in his turn. 



CHAPTER XX. 

WHAT THE GYPSY WOMAN HAT) SEEN. 

T was not until the next night that Wilde 
made his reappearance. 

He then entered the library where 
Sk* Murdaugh was feverishly pacing up 
and down ; and from tne haggard appearance of 
the man’s face, and his jaded expression, it was 
plain that he had just undergone great fatigue. 

The baronet stopped and turned around 
eagerly. 

“Well ? ” he exclaimed. 

“ I have caught her at last, your honor ! 

“ Good ! where is she ? ” 

" On her way to the coast in the wagon with 
Gubbs.” 

The baronet uttered an exclamation of aati* 
faction. 



( 200 ) 


300 


WHAT THE GYPSY 


“ That is veil 1 ” he said. 

Wilde made no reply. The baroi et glanced 
at him. He was gloomy and dispirited. 

“What is the matter? Has anything oc- 
cured \ Where did you find her ? Has any- 
thing taken place 2 ” 

“ Something unlucky enough, your honor. 
I will begin and tell you every thing. I fol- 
lowed their steps — her, and that gypsy scoun- 
drel, in the woods, till I lost them. Gubbs was 
as much at fault as I was ; but we inquired 
of an old woodman, got on the trail of the 
gypsies, who have been camping about in the 
woods, and found ’em at last in the big forest 
behind Maverick House, where they have been 
laying low, to keep out of the way.” 

“ Make haste ! Come to the point ! ” cried 
the baronet, impatiently. 

“ In a minute, your honor. Well, we came 
on ’em at last. I heard ’em, and crawled 
through the brush till I got a sight of ’em, 
there close to me. An old hag in a red cloak 
was watching a pot boiling over a fire on two 
forked sticks ; and that gypsy scoundrel was 
talking to her, while she — the woman we were 
after — was listening. As I got to my hiding- 
place, I heard the old hag call my name ; the 


WOMAN HAD SEEN. 


801 


next thing she said was that she coulo get you 
and roe into trouble, and then that gypsy dog, 
who can never rest till he finds out every thing, 
plied her with questions till she let out ” 

Wilde stopped. 

“ Let out what ? Speak ! ” exclaimed the 
baronet, wrathfully. 

“ What she had seen near the bridge leading 
to Wentworth Castle twenty years ago ! ” said 
Wilde, sullenly. 

The baronet turned pale. 

“ She saw you ? ” 

“ Yes, your honor. How could I help that ? 
I had my orders from you, and obeyed ’em! 
and now I am to get into trouble.” 

“ Cease that growling ! She saw — ” 

“ Well, she saw me steal the child of Yia 
count Cecil!” said Wilde, — “the son of his 
wife who died twenty years ago.” 

The baronet gnawed his lip, and his face 
grew livid. 

“ You paid me to do it, and I lurked round 
the castle till I did it,” growled the Hercules. 
“ I saw the child come tottering down the path 
to the bridge, to look at the water. How he 
came to stray away from his nun?e 1 never 
knew ; out he was there, and 1 caught hold < f 


302 


WHA T THE GYPSY 


him, and lifted him on my black horse, aid 
made through the woods at a gallop, carrying 
him before me ! ” 

“ And — this hag — 1 ” 

“ Saw me ! She was prowling in the brush 
to steal fowls or any thing. I nearly rode over 
her, and knew she had seen me. I ought to have 
killed her, but blood is dangerous ! I paid her 
ten guineas, and afterwards ten more when she 
met me and knew me for the man that stole the 
child ! Then she went away, and I thought 
she was dead. I had carried the child to 
France, — you were at Martigny — and I saw 
no more of her. Now she has told that gyps) 
and that woman the whole, — that the Yiscount 
Cecil’s child was not drowned in the torrent as 
all thought, but carried off by me. They know 
that he lives — is Edmond Earle ! ” 

The baronet drew a long, deep breath. 
Something seemed crushing his breast. 

“Well,” he said, “what followed?” 

“ Why, Gubbs came up, and we jumped into 
’em!” was the reply. “I knocked the gypsy 
rascal on the head, and Gubbs seized hold ot 
the woman. He dragged her off then, and put 
her in the wagon, where she was gagged, and is 
now on her way to the Fly-by-Night? 


WOMAN HAD SEEN. 


80S 

“ That, at least, is gained,” muttered the 
baronet; “and now for the other part. No 
one will believe the charge of that old gypsy 
‘S hag that I stole a child; many will believe 
* Edmond, son of the Viscount Cecil, when he 
brands me as a murderer ! ” 

He stopped. The sound of horses’ hoofs 
was heard without. 

“ He must die ! How to compass that I ” said 
the baronet, in a low voice. 

As he spoke, steps approached, the door 
opened, and Earle entered, pale and tottering 




CHAPTER XXI. 


THE LOVE OF AN OLD MAN FOB A GIRL. 


in the young man’s presence a 3 
Westbrooke Hall, it will be necessary 
to return to Wentworth Castle for a 
brief space. 

Earle bad fainted in the arms of the Vis 
count Cecil, as we have seen, and it was only 
with the assistance of several servants, who ran 
out, that he was borne into the castle. 

The viscount, pale and lost in wonder at the 
Btrange scene he had witnessed, saw to all his 
wants, and a sound night’s rest seemed to re- 
store the young man to his senses. 

He descended on the next morning and man- 
aged to swallow a little food, but it was plain 
that he was laboring under fever. The vis- 
count endeavored to prevail on him to go to bin 
<:! 04 > 


AN OLD MAN'S LOVE , . 


305 


chamber and lie down, but be refused, and it 
the midst of his host’s urging, a carriage drove 
up to the door, from which descended Arthur 
Maverick and his sister Rose. 

Rose entered, pale and pensive, and the vis- 
count hastened forward to greet her. 

“ My dear child ! ” he said, — “ and you must 
permit your old cousin to thus address you ! — 
what has become of your roses? Your ap- 
pearance distresses me ! ” 

Rose smiled. All at once she saw Earle and 
turned crimson. 

“ You, sir, — you here ! ” she faltered. 

The young man bowed, and his face flushed 
too. 

“ You did not know that my poor face would 
meet your eyes here, Miss Maverick ? ” 

“ No, sir ; but I rejoice to see you — ” 

There she stopped with a deep blush. 

“ And I to see you again,” he said, in a low 
tone, with much emotion. “ I remember that 
night — what you said — have thought of it 
often ! On the ocean — in my hours of musing 
— in France, and everywhere, I have seen your 
beautiful face and heard your voice ! ” 

The young girl blushed crimson. The vis- 
count, busy in greeting Arthur, had heard 
20 


306 


AN OLL MAV’S LOVE. 


nothing. Now he turned and saw Rose and 
Earle conversing like old friends. 

“You know my friend, then, the Baron Dela 
mere, my dear Bose ! ” he exclaimed. 

“ Very well, cousin — that is — yes, we know 
Mr. Delamere.” 

“ And are glad to call him our friend,” said 
Arthur, cordially pressing his hand. 

Turning to the viscount as he spoke, he 
explained how their acquaintance had taken 
place. 

“ You saved Bose, then,” said the viscount to 
Earle, with deep emotion. “ For that alone 
you deserve and have my gratitude — my very 
profound gratitude, sir. This young lady is my 
cousin, and all I love upon earth very nearly. 
My life has been sad, sir, — her smiles have 
brightened it. She would live here at Wentworth 
Castle, as its mistress, after my death, if I could 
compass tha\ I cannot. This property goes 
to a personage very distasteful to me, Sir Mur-< 
daugh Westbrooke. Thus, my very dear Bose,” 
he said, turning with a tender smile toward the 
girl, “ you will remain poor in comparison with 
what you would be, had I n_y will ! And now, 
the news ! I am just from France, you know 1 
Bow is Miss Elliuor Maverick ? ” 


4N OLD MAX'S LOVE. 


307 


And the viscount suddenly cooled. 

“ That young lady is not a favorite with 
me, to be frank ; but she is your relative, 
Arthur,” he added. 

“ I am sorry for it,” said the young man. 

And he narrated every thing relating to the 
young lady, winding up with the statement 
that in three or four days she was to be mar- 
lied to Sir Murdaugli Westbrooke. 

The viscount knit his brows. 

“ I had heard something of this ! But so 
soon ! Then she , instead of Rose, will be 
mistress here ! ” 

All eyes were directed toward the viscount 
with surprise. 

u You do not know the tenor of Lord Went- 
worth’s will, I see,” he said, gloomily. “ In case 
of my death without issue, Sir Murdaugh West- 
brooke inherits my estate, as, in the case of his 
death without issue, I would inherit his. Well, 
my child,” he said to Rose, “ he is about to 
marry, and is younger than I am. Thus he and 
his children will possess this castle after my 
death. I attempted to secure you one-half, in 
consideration of relinquishing to the baronet the 
other half now. He refused. There all 
Would to God my poor son had — ” 


308 


AN OLD MANS LOVE. 


He stopped suddenly. 

“ Your son, sir ? ” said Earle, looking at him. 

ri l had a son. I have been married, sir 
Lady Cecil died early, and my poor child 
strayed away and was drowned. We followed 
his footprints to that torrent yonder, and he was 
never more heard of. But this is sorrowful, — 
let me try not to cloud your smiles, my dear 
Rose.” 

As he spoke a servant entered, and presented 
a note on a silver salver. 

The viscount looked at it, and an expression 
of vexation came to his face. 

“ A meeting of magistrates on a matter of 
importance. My presence is indispensable,” he 
said. “ But you will stay and dine with me, 
my dear Rose and Arthur.” 

“I regret to say ’tis impossible, my lord. 
You will come soon to see us.” 

“ Y ery soon; but remain and entertain my 
friend, the Baron Delamere. I beg you to do 
so. You are my own family.” 

And, with a courteous smile, the viscount 
took his departure. 

Rose and Arthur remained until evening. 
With every passing moment, Earle found him- 
self gazing with deeper tenderness on the beau 


AN OLD MANS LOVE. 


309 


<iful girl. His wild passion for Ellinor seemed 
to have merely smoothed the way for this new 
emotion, as profound and durable as the first 
was transient, as serenely tender as the former 
was passionate. 

For the first time Earle felt that he loved in- 
deed; and when at last the young lady rose, 
and took her departure with her brother, Earle 
felt as though the sunlight had suddenly disap- 
peared from the earth with her smile and the 
light of her eyes. He fell back into despon- 
dency. 

The coach, containing Arthur and Hose, 
rolled away just as night descended upon Went- 
worth Castle. 

The viscount had not yet returned, and Earle 
sat down, gloomy and lonely. Then all the 
violent passions, which the presence of the girl 
had banished, began to tear him once more. 
He rose and paced the floor, burnt up by the 
one thought of his mother. Finally a fever 
seized him ; he felt as though his head were 
burning, and going to a bell, rang it violently. 

A servant hastened in. 

“ My horse ! ” said Earle, feverishly. 

The servant hesited, looking with astonish 
ment at his flushed face. 


310 


AN OLD MANS LOVE. 


“ Well, my horse! My horse, I say! Sad- 
dle my horse, without delay ! ” 

The servant bowed and went out, reduced to 
submission by the authoritative voice. 

Earle then coolly descended, put on his hat 
and gloves, and went to the great door. 

A horse, saddled and bridled, already awaited 
him. At Wentworth Castle the master never 
waited. 

u Inform the viscount that I have gone out to 
take a short ride,” he said, getting into the 
saddle. 

And leaving the groom gazing with amaze- 
ment on his agitated face, like the first servant, 
Earle rode down the great avenue, and, crossing 
the bridge, went straight on. 

What was his destination ? He scarce knew 
His brain was reeling, and he was burnt up by 
fever. Only a vague sensation of rage and 
thirst for revenge upon the baronet possessed 
him. His mother — that paper — Sir Mur- 
dangh Westbrooke — such were the thoughts 
that flitted through his weak brain. And set- 
ting spur to his horse, he rode toward West 
brooke Hall. 

The animal broke into a gallop, and it was a 
miracle almost that Earle kept his seat as the 


AN OLD MAN'S LOVE. 


311 


horse sped on through the darkness. He tot- 
tered from side to side, his eyes half-closed, his 
bosom heaving. With heated brain and burn- 
ing cheeks, which only rendered more shocking 
and terrible his death-like pallor, he went on 
at at full speed, clinging to his animal rather by 
the instinct of excellent horsemanship than any 
thing else; — and so, feeble, reeling, fever- 
stricken, out of his senses nearly, reached West- 
brooke Hall, and stood before Sir Murdaugh 
Westbrooke the moment after he had uttered 
the words in reference to Earle, — 
u He must die! ,T 




CHAPTER XXII. 

THE BLUDGEON AND THE ROPE. 

T sight of Earle, the baronet recoiled 
and shook in every limb. Then a dia- 
bolical joy shone in his bloodshot eyes, 
and his mouth slowly expanded into 
the hideous grin which was habitual with 
him. 

For a moment, neither of the adversaries 
spoke. The baronet looked keenly at his in- 
tended victim. 

Earle was as thin as a ghost, and frightfully 
pale, except in the centre of his cheeks. There 
a hectic flush burned, like a red-hot coal. As 
he had advanced he had staggered. As he 
•ooked at the baronet now, his eyes showed 
plainly that the young man was approaching a 
paroxysm of fever ; that the wound inflicted by 
(312 > 



BLUDGEON AND ROPE. 


313 


Wilde had at last worked its results, and 
strength of mind and body were leaving him 
together. 

The expression of diabolical joy in the bar- 
onet’s face deepened. But, spite of this feel- 
) ing, the face of Earle seemed to cow him. 

‘‘What is — your pleasure?” he stammered. 
“ What brings you to this house ? ” 

“ To slay you, if necessary, as you slew Giles 
Maverick ! ” shouted Earle, “ unless you tell me 
where I may find my mother ! ” 

The baronet recoiled. 

t£ My mother ! ” shouted Earle, his hand going 
to his empty belt, “ or, by heaven, I’ll have 
your blood, were you fifty times my father ! ” 

“ Then he does not know yet ! ” came in low, 
muttered tones from the baronet, as, with his 
eyes on the young man’s hot face, he retreated 
toward tiie right-hand apartment. 

“ My mother ! — where is my mother ? — and 
that marriage-record you stole at Martigny ? ” 
As he spoke in his hoarse voice, strident and 
metallic from the effect of fever, Earle ad- 
vanced on the baronet, who continued to retreat 
before him. 

In the baronet’s eyes there was something 
frightful, —• a venom which may be seen in the 


314 


BLUDGEON AND ROPE. 


eyes of the cobra, when he raises his deadly 
crest, and is about to spring. 

“Your mother? I know nothing of her,” 
he said, watching Earle warily, and continuing 
to retire. 

“ Murderer ! No ! You shall not escape 
me ! You are my father, but — ” 

He staggered. But for the table which stood 
near him, he would have fallen to the earth. 
He leaned upon it, and passed his other hand 
over his brow as though to clear his vision. 

“ My mother ! ” he murmured, faintly. 

His doom had, in that moment, been pro 
nounced. 

The baronet had turned and whispered a few 
hurried words to Wilde. The latter had dis 
appeared at one bound. 

Suddenly Earle seemed to recover his 
strength, as though by a miracle. On the wall 
hung a sword. He caught it down and rushed 
on the baronet. 

“ Speak ! Tell me where to find my mother 
and that paper,” he shouted, “ or I will tear you 
in pieces, whether you be my father or not ! 
Answer, monster that you are, where have you 
hidden my mother? You murdered Giles 
Maverick — the very dog who saw it rose to 


BLUDGEON AND ROPE, 


315 


convict you ! You robbed the register at Mar- 
tigny like a felon and a thief ! Last, my 
mother disappears — you may have murdered 
her, as you would murder me if you dared ! ” 

“ I dare ! ” came in a deep and sombre voice 
from the baronet. 

As he spoke the door of the secret closet in 
the wall flew open: the figure of Wilde ap- 
peared in the opening like a hideous picture in 
its frame ; a bludgeon rose, descended, and fell 
upon Earle’s right temple, and he fell forward 
at full length, deprived of consciousness, it 
seemed of life. 

“ Now for the rope ! the rope ! ” shouted the 
baronet, hoarsely. 

Wilde rushed into the apartment, and threw 
a rope around the young man’s shoulders. 
Then, at a signal from the baronet, he wrapped 
and re-wrapped his arms, thus rendering him 
entirely powerless, even if he recovered his 
senses. 

“ What next, sir ? ” growled the Hercules, 
breathing heavily, and gazing with knit brows 
on the pi ostrate figure. 

“ Death ! ” came in a low tone from the bar- 
onet, whose face resembled that of a corpse. 
“ Death ! He has forced this on me ! Death ! 


316 


BLUDGEON AND ROPE. 


and death in presence of the dust of Gile» 
Maverick ! ” 

The Hercules started and turned pale. Rough 
and unscrupulous as he was, the words of the 
baronet horrified him. 

“ You don’t mean — ” 

“Yes,” came in the same low voice from 
the lips of Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke. “ What 
is the difference? It must not take place 
here ! He must be lost sight of, or you and 1 
mount the gallows ! He must die that I may 
live ! He shall not first put the rope around 
my neck, and then, as the son of the Viscount 
Cecil, inherit this estate ! He shall die, and — 
yonder ! He has made himself the champion 
of Giles Maverick! Let him wake to find 
himself close to him in the vault ! Saj> 
nothing ! I have resolved on it ! Refuse to 
aid me, and you hang ! Two horses ! — quick ! 
and tools to open the Maverick vault ! Once 
fthut up there, he will not trouble ns ! — the 
dead tell no tales ! M 



CHAPTER XXIIL 

THE MAVERICK VAULT. 

oSK X hour afterwards, a strange, and terrible 
scene took place at Llangollen church- 
yt/ \ yard, — a wild and secluded spot in the 
hills, a league from Westbrooke Hall. 

The church, ancient and weather-beaten, 
rose in the midst of a ghostly array of tomb- 
stones ; and the shadows of the sombre ever- 
greens growing thickly along the rude stone 
wall around the grounds, danced fantastically, 
as a chill wind agitated their boughs, and 
sobbed onward. 

It was a weird and lugubrious night. The 
moon was sailing through long streaks of ebon 
clouds, reaching from horizon to horizon. At 
one instant the lonely edifice, and the tombs 
around it came out witli sudden brilliance. 

, 317 ; 


THE MAVERICK VAULT. 


i 8 

Then the moon disappeared and all waa 
wrapped in gloom again, a gloom which the 
sobbing wind rendered ghastly and funereal. 

All at once, as the moon soared forth, light- 
ing up the sombre tombstones and family 
vaults, — for Llangollen was the place of sepul- 
ture for the gentry of the neighborhood, — two 
figures, carrying between them something which 
they half supported and half dragged, got 
over the wall, and rapidly approached a huge 
stone set in the side of a knoll. This stone was 
evidently the door to a large vault, and was se- 
cured by an iron fastening. Over it, cut in 
rude letters on the coping was the single word — 

“ Maverick.” 

The figures came on rapidly with their bur- 
den, which, silent and insensible, resembled a 
dead body. 

“ It is here,” said one of the men. “ Where 
are the tools? Wrench off the fastening.” 

The other obeyed the order, and, inserting an 
instrument, succeeded in forcing the vault. 

“ Open ! ” came from the other. 

A huge shoulder was placed against the stone 
and it slowly revolved, grating on its hinges. 

Suddenly the neigh of a horse, from beyo' d 
the wall, rang out. 


THE MAVERICK VAULT. 


31 9 


The two men started and trembled. 

“ It is nothing, only the horses ; quick, help 
me to carry him in ! ” came in a guttural whis 
per from the lips of Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke 

Wilde, panting and shaking in all his limbs, 
obeyed. The body of Earle was lifted and 
borne down the few steps into the vault. 

“ He will not live here ten minutes,” mut> 
tered Wilde, staggering back. “The air ig 
death to breathe/' 

“ So much the better — come ! ” 

And leaping out of the vault, the baronet 
gained the open air. Wilde hastily followed 
him, and, at a sign from his master, closed the 
huge door. It went to with a dull clash. The 
Hercules shuddered. 

“ Fasten the iron.” 

With a trembling hand, Wilde obeyed ; ard 
in a few moments the vault was heavily se- 
cured. The baronet looked on with the expres- 
sion of a fiend, during the work. 

“ And now, come,” he said ; “ but what is 
that % ” 

And he pointed to a shadow, passing rapidly 
beneath the evergreens. As he uttered the 
words, the shadow darted toward the wall neai 
the horses. 


820 THE MAVERICK VAULT \ 

44 A man ! — some one has seen us.” 

The words escaped the baronet in a horrified 
cry. He shuddered, and exclaimed. 

“ Pursue him ! — he must die, or we are lost.” 

Wilde had not waited for the order. With 
one bound he reached the wall ; as he cleared 
it, a dark figure crossed the expanse without at 
a run. Wilde followed ; the figure stumbled ; 
a moment afterwards, they had clutched. 

“ You ! ” cried Wilde, recognizing the gypsy. 

The vagabond made no reply. 

“ You saw, then ?” gasped Wilde. 

The words were followed by a cry from the 
Hercules. The gypsy had drawn his knife, and 
plunged it into the gamekeeper’s heart 

“ Ah ! ” groaned Wilde staggering back, “ I 
am dead ! but — ” 

And suddenly wrenching the knife from the 
gypsy, he drove it into his breast. 

The weapon disappeared to the hilt, which 
struck heavily against the gypsy’s breast-bone. 

“We die together at least,” gasped Wilde, in 
a broken voice. 

And he fell, dragging the gypsy. 

A moment afterwards, as the baronet hastened 
to the spot, he half rose. 

“ I die,” muttered Wilde — ‘ but he too - — 


THE MAVERICK VAULT. 


821 


He pointed to the body of the gypsy, lying 
on its back with the knife buried in the breast. 

As Wilde spoke, his head drooped, the death- 
rattle issued from his throat, and falling back, 
he uttered a last groan and expired. 

21 




CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE MAH FROM WENTWORTH CASTLE. 

T was nearly midnight. 

Sir Murdaugh Westbrook e was sitting 
in his library at Westbrooke Hall. 

He seemed to have grown ten years 
older since the morning, and was livid. 

At every instant he looked over his shoulder, 
and listened. 

“ Folly ! ” he suddenly exclaimed, rising and 
uttering a short, harsh laugh ; “ am I a baby to 
start at shadows ! All is safe now 1 discovery 
is impossible. My plans succeed — nothing 
fails ! That woman is safe on board the Fly-by 
Night now, and the marriage record is burned ! 
That man is — ” 

He stopped. In spite of himself a tremor 
agitated him. 

( 322 ) 



MAN FROM WENTWORTH CASTLE. 


“ lie too has disappeared ! Thus nothing pre- 
vents my marrying Ellinor Maverick on the 
day after to-morrow ; and he will not be present 
any more than that woman to convict me! 
Te s — all is safe. I marry and I inherit the 
Wentworth property. The obstacles have dis- 
appeared — even Gubbs and Wilde, ray tools 
Gubbs will go to St. Domingo, and never more 
be heard of ; Wilde is yonder in the wood 
where I dragged him and the dead gypsy. 
When they are found, there will be no questions. 
My gamekeeper has fought with a poacher, 
and in the affray they have both been killed ! ” 

lie sat down, pale and breathing heavily, des- 
pite his reassuring reflections. 

“ And yet I tremble ! ” he muttered ; “ I start 
at every sound ! ” 

The hoofs of a horse were heard without. 
A mounted man was evidently approaching 
rapidly. 

The baronet started up. 

“ Who can that be ! ” 

As ho spoke, a knock was heard at the front 
door, and then silence followed. 

The baronet seemed paralyzed. What to do ? 
Should he secrete himself? Who was this mid- 
night visitor ? 


324 MAN FROM WENTWORTH CASTLE . 

“lama coward ! — shadows fright me ! 1 

will face all ! ” 

And he went and opened the front door of 
the house. It was necessary that he should do 
so. Beside Wilde there had been for weeks 
only an old deaf crone of a servant at the 
hall. 

A serving man was seen at the door. 

© 

‘’Well?” said the baronet in a low tone. 

The man’s hand went to his hat. 

“ Has Captain Earle been here, your honor ? 
1 was sent by his lordship to ask, and say that 
Captain Earle, who is staying at the castle, went 
out for a short ride this evening, and an hour 
or two afterwards his horse came back without 
any rider. His lordship thought he might have 
had an accident, and something might be known 
of him here.” 

The baronet responded in a low tone. 

“ Why here ? ” 

“ His lordship did not say, your honor.” 

“ Say to his lordship that I have seen nothing 
of Captain Earle.” 

The servant touched his hat and retired - 

The baronet closed the door, and staggered 
rather than walked back to the library. 

“ Peril surrounds me on every side ! The 


MAN FROM WENTWORTH CAS * La. 325 


ghost of that boy rises to point to the spot where 
he is entombed alive! Was I mad to do that? 
Am I then the monster of monsters s ” 

lie fell into a seat. 

“ Doubtless, since I do this monstrous thing ! 
Well, let me act out my character! I will go 
through now to the end ! Once married, I will 
go abroad and only return when the viscount is 
dead ! Dead ? If he were only dead now, all 
were well ! ” 

A cry of pain followed the words. 

He had violently clenched his hands. The 
movement of that upon which the dissecting 
knife had indicted the wound, caused him acute 
agony. 

“ I had forgotten that ! ” he muttered, gazing 
at the slight puncture, from which he had long 
removed the bandage ; “ who would have be- 
lieved that a scratch would cause so much pain ? ” 

He pondered for more than an hour. Then 
he suddenly rose. 

“The die is cast! Why draw back now!” 
he muttered. “ All is decided. In two days I 
shall be married and on my way to France ! ” 

A smile of ghastly triumph distorted his lij* 
as he spoke, and, taking a light from the table, 
he went to his chamber. 



CHAPTER XXV. 

THE WEDDING AT LLANGOLLEN. 

' was two days after these scenes. 

The coast of Pembrokeshire was 
bathed in a flood of brilliant sunshine. 
The great headland above Oldport 
rose like a giant in the fresh light. The foam 
danced and sparkled ; and even the sombre 
firs of the hills seemed more cheerful for 
this illumination, driving away the mists of 
autumn. 

At Llangollen church in the hills, a large 
crowd had assembled. It was the daycf Sii 
Murdaugh Westbrooke’s marriage to Miss 
Ellinor Maverick. 

The selection of Llangollen church as the 
Beene of the marriage ceremony had been made 
at the last moment, and in spite of the baronet’s 
( 326 ^ 



THE WEDDING AT LLANGOLLEN. 327 

persistent objections. The fair Ellinor, now- 
ever, had not been his opponent in the discus- 
sion. The old dowager, Lady Worsham, at 
whose house the young lady had “ taken 
refuge,” as she said, had been seized with a fit 
of piety or religious etiquette, it seemed ; and 
under the influence of this sentiment she had 
obstinately announced that the wedding feast 
might be at her house, but the ceremony must 
be at Llangollen church. 

The old dowager had triumphed. The bar- 
onet found her immovable, and with fear and 
trembling yielded. 

“ After all,” he said to himself, <c what have 
I to fear ? A ghost ? — men do not live two 
days in — ” 

The words died away in his throat. 

“ So be it, madam,” he said. 

And bowing sullenly, he went to make hia 
preparations. 

The morning came, and the announcement 
of the intended ceremony had drawn a great 
crowd, both of the gentry and the plainer peo- 
ple. Chariots stopped at the gate, and dis- 
charged their burdens of lord and lady. A 
crowd watched there, moving vnquietly to and 
fro in front of the gateway. Among the crowd 


828 THE WEDDING AT LLANGOLLEN. 


were seen many of the fraternity of the wolves, 
— rough figures, brought thither by some 
stronger sentiment, it seemed, than curiosity 
and whose eyes were fixed on the pageant with 
ill-concealed hostility. 

At last the chariot of Lady Worsham, con- 
taining the dowager, Sir Murdaugh West- 
brooke, and Miss Ellinor Maverick drove up to 
the gateway. 

From it issued, first, the baronet, clad with 
unusual splendor, but as pale as death. Then 
came the ladies: they entered the church, 
and a great crowd surged in after them. 

In front of the altar stood the priest in his 
black canonicals. The bridal party — if that 
could be called a party consisting of but two 
or three persons — ascended the aisle, took 
their positions before the priest, and the cere- 
mony was about to begin. 

From the body of the church, gloomy, in 
spite of the sunshine, a great crowd followed 
the details of the scene, with varied emotions. 

Many were there from simple curiosity 
Others came from want of means to otherwise 
kill the time. Others, — and they were num- 
erous — gazed with ill-concealed hostility on 
the pale bridegroom. Never popular, or per- 


THE WEDDING AT LLAA GOLLEN. 329 


sonally attractive, tlie baronet had now few 
well-wishers, and was so livid as to appear 
hideous. 

One thing about him everybody observed — 
* his head hung down, and moved from side to 
side. As it thus moved, wary and fearful 
glances shot from beneath his gray eyebrows; 
more than once he looked furtively over his 
shoulder as though fearful of something. As 
he took his place beside the beautiful Ellinor, 
he was observed to shudder. 

She was radiant, and her splendid costume 
set off her dazzling and magnetic beauty. It 
was plain that no doubts or misgivings affected 
her . She was about to become the wife of a 
man of great wealth and high rank — her 
worldly ambition was soon to be fully grati- 
fied ; and in the dark eyes of the fair Ellinor, 
as she rustled up to the chancel, in her grand 
white satin, could be read haughty triumph, 
and the fruition of all her hopes. 

The ceremony began. As it did so, a mur- 
mur issued from the crowd. They were saying 
to each other, “ How beautiful ! ” and “ How 
iiideous I ” 

But Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke did not heai 
them. All his powers seemed to be concen 


530 THE WEDDING AT LLANGOLLEN. 


trated into the one faculty of listening. Hia 
face resembled the drawn and parchment -like 
outlines of a corpse. He plainly feared some- 
thing — some miracle, it might be — the invis- 
i jle fate seemed approaching. 

It came. 

The priest proceeded with the ceremony, and 
reached the passage. 

“Into this holy estate these two persona 
present come now to be joined.” 

He looked up from the hook. 

“ If any man can show just cause why they 
may not lawfully be joined together, let him 
now speak, or hereafter forever hold his peace.” 

As the words issued from the priest’s lips, a 
woman in a black dress advanced slowly up the 
aisle. All saw her coming, and a hundred eyes 
were directed toward her. 

The priest gazed at her in utter astonishment. 
The hand containing the prayer-book sunk to 
his side. 

The woman came on, siow, silent, with the 
noiseless tread of a ghost. 

Suddenly the baronet raised his head. His 
startled eyes roamed from side to side. He 
glanced over his shoulder. As he did so, he 
uttered a low cry. 


THE WEDDING AT LLANGOLLEN. 331 


• There is just cause,” said the recluse, in a 
tow, clear voice, u why Sir Murdaugh West- 
brooke should not marry. I am Lady West- 
brook e. Here is the record of my marriage.” 

And she extended toward the priest the frag 
ments of the leaf of the marriage register stolen 
from Martigny. 




CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE VENGEANCE OF A BLOOD-HOUND. 

IR MURDAUGH WESTBROOKE 
tottered, and leaned on the chancel 
railing. 

Ellinor Maverick uttered a low scream, 
and fell back fainting in the arms of Lady 
Worsham. 

The crowd in the body of the church rose, 
and towering above them could be seen the 
commanding figure of the Viscount Cecil, who 
made a gesture to some one and said coldly, — 
, “ The moment has come I ” 

Then a shudder ran through the assembly 
It opened right and left, and through the 
space thus made advanced a procession of the 
wolves, bearing on their shoulders — 

Eatet.te 1 

( 881 ) 



VENGEANCE OF A BLOOD- HOUND. 333 


The young man was wasted to a shadow. 
Elis face was paler than ashes. His eyes were 
sunken and bloodshot. He lay on the brawny 
shoulders of his brother wolves, as weak as a 
sick child, and as he was borne up the aisle 
fixed his eyes on the baronet, and whispered 
rather than said, — 

“ That is he.” 

The priest advanced hurriedly. 

“ What means this scene ? Who is this sick 
man ? ” 

“Ask the witness 1 have brought here.” 
said the viscount. 

And he pointed to the rear of the strange 
procession. 

Supported between two of the wolves, was 
seen the gypsy, as pale and wasted as Earle. 
His eyes alone seemed alive as he staggered on 
between his two supporters, and those eyes, dark 
and fiery, were fixed upon the countenance of 
the baronet. 

The priest uttered an exclamation. 

“ My lord ! the meaning of all this ! ” ho 
faltered. 

“It means that the person whom you sec 
there, has attempted botl bigamy and murder, ” 
said the viscount. 


334 VENGEANCE OP A BLOOD-HOUND. 


Anri with his arm extended at full length, ha 
pointed straight toward Sir Murdaugh West- 
brooke. 

“ Do you doubt ? look at him ! ” 

And his extended arm remained motionless. 

“ Did I need the testsmony of his face, that 
would convict him ! ” said the viscount slowly 
and solemnly. “ But that is not needed. 
There are witnesses, Listen ! people of Pem- 
brokeshire ! ” 

And turning to the crowd, — 

“ Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke married in 
France — and there is his wife. He attempts 
to marry again, and has stolen the record — 
there it is. He stole my child — the only child 
of my poor wife who died twenty years since — 
to inherit from me, and buried that child alive 
— there he is ! Br.t two days since all this whs 
arranged, as he supposed, securely. The first 
wife was sent toward the coast to be carried 
abroad, and I met and was appealed to by 
her. The child — my child — was knocked 
down and dragged to this very spot, and buried 
alive in the Maverick vaults, by the murderer 
of Giles Maverick ; and a poor gypsy who 
Baw the infamy, and was left as they thought 
dead, dragged his bleeding body to Old port. 


VENGEANCE OF A BLOOD HOUND. 335 


where lie gave the alarm to the brave chief c>f 
the wolves there. They came and rescued him, 
almost dying ! There he is ! ” 

He pointed to Earle. 

An immense shout rose from the assembly. 

“ Death ! death to him I ” cried the wolves ; 
“he tried to murder a wolfl Death to the 
murderer ! ” 

As they spoke, they rushed straight on the 
baronet, Goliath at their head. 

“ Death ! death ! ” rose in hoarse thunder 
from the ferocious crowd. 

And they were about to tear the oaronet tc 
pieces. 

Suddenly Goliath recoiled, and the crowd 
behind him, felt the pressure of his huge bulk. 

“ Look at him ! look at the murderer ! ” he 
growled in terrified tones, pointing to the bar- 
onet. 

The sight was terrible indeed. 

Sir Murdaugh Westbrooke foamed at the 
mouth, and his huge red tongue was hanging 
out. His eyes glared around him with a vacant 
and animal expression. All at once he began 
to pant quickly, as a dog does when he is heated, 
then he snapped, uttered a growl, which ended 
in a sound like a bark, and rushed straight upon 


336 VENGEANCE OF A BXCOD- HOUND. 


the crowd, who gave way with terror, as 
came. 

“ The mad dog ! He was bitten ! — his bite 
is deadly ! ” 

Some one uttered those words. 

Their effect was instant. 

The crowd recoiled, and leaped over the 
backs of the seats, to avoid him. 

He did not attempt to follow them. They 
seemed to have disappeared from his view. 
The wretched man, who had inoculated his 
blood with the mad dog’s virus, when he 
punctured his hand, in dissecting the corpse, 
bitten by the animal, was now fully mastered 
by the poison, and turned into a beast. Hydro- 
phobia — that most awful of human scourges — 
had clutched him. He saw nothing, heard 
nothing, rushed on, he knew not whither, snap- 
ing, and uttering hoarse cries. When he was 
followed into the churchyard, it was seen that 
lie made for the Maverick vault. 

u There are two men murdered here ! One f 
is alive ! ” he growled, tearing at the huge 
stone. 

Four men threw themselves upon him, and 
seized him. They were scarce able to hold 
him. Tetanus had set in with mortal violence ; 


VENGEANCE OF A BLOOD-HOUND. 337 

and he was borne foaming, raving, and strug 
gling to Westbrooke hall. 

Three more paroxysms assailed the miserable 
man before midnight. 

As the last died away, he fell back a corpse 
in the arms of his attendants. 

The dog of the murdered man, Giles Mav- 
erick, had avenged his master. He had bitten 
and poisoned the wolf ; and the dead wolf had 
poisoned the murderer. 

The gallows was spared the trouble. Hydro 
phoDia ended all. 

83 




CHAPTER XXVTL 

THE WOLVES CELEBRATE THE MARRIAGE OF 
THEIR CHIEF. 

narrative might here appropriately 
d, but a few words more may interest 
0 reader. 

As the baronet rushed from Llangollen 
Church, Ellinor Maverick was borne out faint 
ing, by Lady Worsham; and a month after- 
wards they went abroad, returning only some 
years afterwards to Pembrokeshire. 

Earle, his mother, and the gypsy were led 
forth in triumph by the wolves — and as the 
young man raised his head in the fresh sun- 
shine, he felt his father’s arms around him. 

Thereat the wolves uttered a shout. 

"It be his son! the son of the good vis- 
( 838 ) 



MARRIAGE CELEB RATION. 


399 


count ! he be the chief of the wolves ! ” shouted 
G-oliath. 

And again they caught up Earle and bore 
him to the viscount’s coach, on their shoulders, 
in triumph. 

“ You be the chief, master, remember ! ” re- 
peated Goliath. 

And he uttered a second shout. The wolves 
howled in response, and the sound rang through 
the hills like thunder. 

It was still reverberating in the fir-clad 
gorges, when the chariot with Earle, his moth- 
er, the gypsy, and the viscount, disappeared. 

In an hour they were at Wentworth Castle. 

A year after these events, Edmond, son of the 
Viscount Cecil, was married to Rose Maverick, 
at Maverick House. 

Lady Westbrooke remained at Wentworth 
Castle. Nothing could induce her to inhabit 
her dower estate of Westbrooke Hall. 

Arthur Maverick remained unmarried. Elli- 
nor returned only some years afterwards, and 
never appeared in society; dedicating her time 
to Lady Worsham, from whom she expected to 
inherit an estate. 

The gypsy, promoted to the poet of head 


340 MARRIAGE CELEBRATION. 

gamekeeper at Wentworth Castle, lived and 
died, loved and trusted by Earle. 

So terminated the drama — such were the 
fates of the personages. 

The Viscount Cecil seemed, more than all 
others, content with the denouement. He had 
regained his son, and that son was married to 
his favorite Hose. 

The wedding was a grand one. Ho less a 
person than Lieutenant Dargonne made his ap- 
pearance, and laughed and drank his old cap- 
tain’s health. Then the cortege set out from 
Maverick House for Wentworth Castle. As it 
approached Oldport, an ovation awaited it. The 
wolves attacked it all at once, with loud cries. 

The horses were taken from the chariot con- 
taining Earle and his blushing bride ; brawny 
hands seized the vehicle and drew it on amid 
cries of rejoicing. And above the ferocious 
crowd, with bearded faces and brandished arms, 
rose the shout of Goliath, — 

“He be the chief of the wolves ! ” 



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figures, conspire to give an unusual Interest to the works of this eminent Southern 
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Beulah $i SojSt. Elmo $i $o 

Macaria I sdVashti I 5^ 

Inez 1 50 Infelice I 50 

At the Mercy of Tiberius. . . 1 5o| 


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ST. ELMO , Magnolia Edition, 2 vols. 8 vo., Magnificently Illustrated 
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Julie Pn Smith’s Novels. 


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ter $1 00 

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Lucy 1 00 

His Young Wife 1 00 


The Widower 

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Courting and Farming, 
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Blossom Bud 


$1 00 
1 00 
1 00 
1 00 

i QO 


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“The Novels of Marion Harland are of surpassing excellence. By intrinsic power 
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most intense interest and fascination.” 


Alone 

Hidden Path. . . . 
Moss Side.. . . .. . 

Nemesis 

Miriam 

Sunnybank ..... 
Ruby’s Husband. 
At Last 


$1 00 My Little Love 

1 00 Phemie’s Temptation 
1 00 The Empty Heart 
1 00 From my Youth Up... 

1 oo Helen Gardner 

1 00 Husbands and Homes, 

I 00 Jessamine 

5 00! True as Steel.... 


$1 00 
1 00 
1 00 
1 00 
1 00 
1 00 
1 00 
I 00 


4 


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Albert Ross' Novels. 

New Cloth Bound Editions. 


-fhere la a great difference between the productions of Albert Rw.i and those of 
w ay ./ nr the sensational writers of reoent date. When he deplete vice he doe* it with 
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strong. TTifl characters become in his hands living, moving creatures.” 


Thou Shalt Not $r 

His Private Character I 

Soeaking of Ellen I 

Her Husband’s Friend I 

The Garston Bigamy : 

Thy Neighbor’s Wife I 

Young Miss Giddy I 

Out of Wedlock l 

Young Fawcett’s Mabel. .. . I 

His Foster Sister < 

The Naked Truth • 

A Sugar Princess {New ) .... I 


00 

In Stella’s Shadow 


00 

Moulding a Maiden 


00 

Why I’m Single 

. . . 1 00 

00 

An Original Sinner 


00 

Love at Seventy 


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A Black Adonis 


00 

Love Gone Astray 


00 

Their Marriage Bond. . . . 


00 

A New Sensation 


00 

That Gay Deceiver! 


00 

Stranger Than Fiction. ., 


00 




John Esten Cooke’s Works. 


"The thrilling historic stories of John Esten Cooke must be classed among Che 
HBSV and most popular of all American writers. The great, oontest between the States 
was the theme he chose for his Historic Romances. Following until the close of the 
war the fortunes of Stuart, Ashby. Jackson and Ree, he returned to ' Eagle’s Nest,’ his 
old home where, in the quiet of peace, he wrote volume after volume, intense in 
dramatic interest” 


Surry of Eagle’s Nest . . U . . $ i 50 


Hammer and Rapier. . . ; . . $1 50 


Fairfax 

Hilt to Hilt 

Beatrice Hallam 

Leather and Silk 

Miss Bonnybel 

Out of the Foam , 


1 50 
1 50 
1 50 
1 50 
1 50 
1 50 


Mohun 

Captain Ralph 

Colonel Ross ot Piedmont.. 

Robert E. Lee 1 /. .. 

Stonewall Jackson t , . 

Her Majesty the Queen 


1 50 
1 50 
1 50 
1 50 
1 50 

1 50 


A. S. Roe’s Novels. 


••There is k? writer of the present day who excels A. S. Roe, in his particular line 
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his sympathy with the interests of everyday existence and his depth and sincerity of 
feeling. His stories appeal to the heart, and strengthen and refresh it.” 


True to the Last Si 00 

A Long Look Ahead. . ... I 00 

The Star and the Cloud .... I 00 

l*w Been Thinking 1 00 

How Could He Help it ? . . . 1 00 
like and Unlike. 1 00! 


To Love and to be Loved. ..$1 00 


Time and Tide I 00 

Woman Our Angel 1 00 

Looking Around 1 00 


The Cloud on the Heart.... I OQ 
Resolution ••••...«« •-*-« , 1 qc 


W. DILLINGHAM CO.’S PUBLICATIONS. 


3 


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Cheque for Three Thousand.^ oo[A Pedigree in Pawn $i 25 

The Two White Elephants.. 1 25 Hats Off I 25 

The Stateroom Opposite... 1 25J 


Wm. Le Queux. 

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fiery as cleverly as William Le Queux. He possesses the art of weaving romance; 
that enthral the reader to the last page” 

If Sinners Entice Thee $1 50 The Day of Temptation. .. .$1 50 

The Bond of Black 1 sojThe Secrets of Monte Carlo I 00 


Josh Billings. 

His Complete Writings, Biography with loo Illustrations $2 00 


Artemus Ward. 

Complete Comic Writings — Revised Edition, with 28 full page 

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Celia E. Gardner’s Novels. 

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Stolen Waters (In verse)... 
Broken Dreams “ .... 

Compensation “ . . . . 

A Twisted Skein “ .... 

Tested 


$1 50 Rich Medway 

I 50 A Woman’s Wiles 

1 50 Terrace Roses 

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I 50! Won Under Protest {New). 


$1 50 
I 50 
1 50 
I 50 
I 50 


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The War Trail 

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The Headless Horseman 
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$1 00 
. I 00 
I 00 
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I 00 
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1 00 
1 00 


The White Chief 

The Tiger Hunter 

The Hunter’s Feast 

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The Quadroon 

The White Gauntlet. . . . 
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.$1 00 
1 00 
I 00 
I 00 
. I 00 
, I 00 
I OO 
I OO 


6 


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“Brick’' Pomeroy’s Works. 

** The versatility of genius exhibited by this author has won for him a world-wide 
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Sense — A serious book 

Gold Dust 

Car Saturday Nights . . 


$i oo 
I oo 
i oo 


Nonsense — A comic book. .$i oo 


Brick Dust '* . . i oo 

Home Harmonies. i oo 


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•* The mental characteristics of Allan Pinkerton were judgment as to facts, knowl- 
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Mollie Maguires, The I oo 

Somnambulist, The. I oo 

Claude Melnotte i oo 

Criminal Reminiscences. ... I oo 

Railroad Forger, The i oo 

Bank Robbers I oo 

A Double Life i oo 

Gyfsies and Detectives i oo 


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Model Town and Detectives, i oo 
Strikers, Communists, etc. . i oo 

Mississippi Outlaws I oo 

Bucholz and Detectives i oo 

Burglar’s Fate, The I oo 

Professional Thieves i oo 

Spy of the Rebellion, The., i oo 
Thirty Years a Detective. ... j oo 


Mansfield Tracy Walworth’s Novels. 

•* Mr. Walworth’s novels are brilliant, scholarly and absorbing, and reveal great 
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Warwick $i 50 

Hotspur 1 50 

Lulu * I 50 

Storm cl iff. I 50 


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Beverly 1 50 

Zahara 1 50 


Ernest Renan’s and other Theological Works. 

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The Life of Jesus $1 75 

Lives of the Apostles 1 75 

The Life of St. Paul 1 75 


The ^ible in India. Jacolliot 2 00 


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Inside Ihe Church of Rome — 

By the Nun of Kenmare.. I 75 


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Victor Hugo’s Croat Shovel. 

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Smother Truth’s Melodies. 

A Kindergarten of the most useful knowledge for children, with 

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Children’s Fairy Geography. 

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Twentieth Century Cook Book. Mrs. Moritz and Miss Kahn. 1 50 

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Mrs. Harold Stagg. By Robert Grant 125 

Clare Duval. By Clement Wilkes I to 

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A Master of Life. By Zola M. Boyle 1 25 

Countess Helena. 4 / By Gertrude Hague 1 50 

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Father Anthony. By Robert Buchanan I 5 ° 

The Song of the Sword, a Romance of 1796. Ditrichstein 1 50 

Widow Magoogin. By John J. Jennings 1 2 5 

Matthew Doyle. By Will Garland 1 2 $ 

Congressman Hartlie. By Courtney Wellington I 25 

Amy Warren. By Algernon Sydney Logan - 1 5 ® 


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Katharine Barry. By Harry Hughes $! 25 

Miss Hogg; The American Heiress. By Mrs. V. C. Jones. . . I 50 
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Rising Fortunes. By John Oxenham I 50 

The Degeneration of Dorothy. By Frank Kinsella 1 50 

Don Cosme. By T. H. Tyndale I 25 

Jack Crews. By Martha Frye Boggs I 50 

The Funny Side of Politics. By George S. Hilton I 25 

The Slave of the Lamp. By Henry Seton Merriman I 50 

The Sacrifice of Silence. By Edouard Rod I 50 

The Man Who Dared. By John P. Ritter I 25 

Gettysburg, Then and Now. By J. M. Vanderslice 3 50 

The Story of The Rough Riders. By Edward Marshall, I 50 

A Village Ophelia. By Anne Reeve Aldrich 1 25 

A Princess of Vascovy. By John Oxenham I 50 

The Return ofThe O’Mahony. By Harold Frederic I 50 

Andree at The North Pole. By Leon Lewis I 25 

Waters that Pass Away. By N. B. Winston I 25 

Helena. By H. S. Irwin I 25 

Hollow Bracken. By Hanson Penn Diltz I 50 

Not on the Chart. By Algernon Sydney Logan I 25 

His Own Image. By Alan Dale 1 50 

As the Hart Panteth. By Hallie Erminie Rives 1 25 

Bound by the Law. By Kate Thyson Marr I 50 

God's Pay Day. By Edgar Clifton Bross 1 25 

Merivale, or Phases of Southern Life. By James Robertshaw. 1 25 

Cyrano de Bergerac. By M. Rostand 1 00 

The Rainbow Feather. By Fergus Hume 1 25 

Houses of Glass. By Wallace Lloyd, M.D 1 50 

Rondo. By Cyril Norman I 50 

The White Devil of Verde. By Lucie France Pietce I 25 

Flames and Ashes. By Alice de Carret 1 25 

True Detective Stories. From Pinkerton Archives. Moffett. . 75 

My Friend the Captain. By W. L. Terhune. Illustrated.... 1 50 

An American Citizen. By Madeleine Lucette Ryley I 50 

Two Odd Girls. By John A. Peters 1 50 


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The World Over, Comic Lessons in Geography. By Joe Kerr. 1 00 

The Worst Boy in the School. By M. J. A. McCaffery 75 

The Drones Must Die. By Max Noidau 2 00 

Near a Whole City Full. By Edward W. Townsend 1 25 

Cleo the Magnificent. By Louis Zangwill 1 50 

Poems. By Belle R. Harrison 1 25 

The Night Before Christmas. By Clement C. Moore 75 

Sabre and Bayonet. Stories of Heroism. T. F. Rodenbough. 1 50 

Philosophers and Actresses. By Houasaye. 2 vols 4 00 

Men and Women of the 18th Century. By Houssaye. 2 vols. 4 00 
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The Bravest 500 of ’61. By T. F. Rodenbough. Illustrated.. 350 

Horace Everett. By the Marquise Clara Lanza. 1 50 

The Day of Resis. By Lillian Frances Mentor. Illustrated.. . 1 50 

Lion Jack. By P. T. Barnum 1 50 

Jack in the Jungle. By P. T. Barnum 1 50 

Dick Broadhead. By P. T. Barnum 150 

Habits of Good Society. Points of taste and good manners. . . 1 00 
Art of Conversation. F or those who would be agreeable talkers. 1 00 
Arts of Writing, Reading and Speaking. Self-Improvement.. 1 00 

Carleton’s Hand-Book of Popular Quotations 1 50 

1000 Legal Don’ts. By Ingersoll Lockwood 75 

600 Medical Don’ts. By Ferd. C. Valentine, M.D 75 

The Globe Treasury of Universal Knowledge 1 00 

Pole on Whist — English Standard. With “ Portland Rules.”. 75 
Fifty Years among Authors, Books and Publishers. Derby. . . 5 00 

Laos Veneris, and other Poems. By Swinburne I 53 

The Culprit Fay. By Joseph Rodman Drake. Illustrated 1 00 

Love [L’Amour]. Translated from Michelet’s Famous Work. . 1 50 

Woman [La Femme]. The Sequel to “ L’Amour ” 1 50 

Verdant Green. A Racy English College Story 1 50 

Professional Criminals of America. Byrnes. Illustrated 5 00 


IO 


G. W. DILLINGHAM CO.'S PUBLICATIONS. 


Miscellaneous Works, Continued. 


Artist in Cuba. ' Carleton. .$i oo 

American Duchess i 

Arrows of Love. Daintrey . 

Ask Her, Man ! Ask Her ! i 
Abbess of Jouarre. Renan, i 
Art of Amusing. Bellew.. i 

Arabian Nights i 

Another Man’s Wife i 

Awful Boy, That i 

Behind Plastered Walls , . . i 
Bitterwood. M. A. Green, i 
Bessie Wilmerton. Westcott i 
Blue Stocking. Edwards. . i 

Bridget of Ours, That 

Bottom Facts in Spiritualism i 

Beatrice Cenci i 

Baroness, The. Miller.... i 
Burnhams, The. Stewart.. 2 
Braxton’s Bar. Daggett. . . 1 
Bulwer’s Letters to His Wife 2 
Constance’s Fate 1 


Clip Her Wing 1 

Conquered 1 

Clear Light in Spirit World. 1 
Cachet. M. J. R. Hamilton 1 
Cupid on Crutches. N. B. W. 
College Widow. Seymour.. 1 

Charming Widow, A 1 

Charette 1 

Cashier’s Scrap Book. Percy . 1 

Disagreeable Woman 

Dawn to Noon. Violet Fane r 

Dissolution, The I 

Debatable Land. R. D. Owen 2 
Doctor Antonio. Ruffini. . . 1 
Dunleath Abbey. Diltz. ... 1 

Don Quixote 1 

Darling of an Empire, The. 1 


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Eighty-seven Kisses, By?.. 


Eugene Ridgewood. James 
Errors. Ruth Carter .. . 
Every Man His Own Doctor 

Edmund Dawn 

Exile’s Romance. Louis. . 
Edith Murray. Matthews. 
Ebon & Gold. C. L. M . . . 
Fort Reno. Mrs. Dyer... 

Flashes from “ Ouida ” 

Fallen Pillar Saint 

Fall of Kilman Kon, The. 
Fallen Among Thieves. . . . 
Frankincense. Porter. . . . 

French Love Songs 

Faustina. . . 

Galgano’s Wooing. Stebbins 
Gold, Grace & Glory. Mize 
Hidden Power. Tibbies.. 

Huckleberry 

Horrid Girl, That. By ?. . 
Journey to Mars. Pope.... 
50'Jessica, Mrs. W. H. White 
00 King of Alberia, The. L. D 

50 Kingsbury Sketches 

75 Koheleth. Storrs 

50 Love in Letters. Wilson. . 

50 Louise and I. Dodge 

50 Little Guzzy. Habberton . 
50 Missing Chord. Dillingham 
75 Manless World. Yourell. . 

50 Mignonette. Sangree 

00 Marguerite’s Journal 

50 Miss Beck. Tilbury Holt. 
50 Measure for Measure. Stanley 
50 Marston Hall. L. Ella Byrd, 
oo | Mystery of Bar Harbor, The 
50 My Queen. Sandette. . . 


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